What's Dead Should Stay Dead
by TraSan
Summary: When bodies start disappearing in Flatt Plains, Iowa, Sam and Dean search for the truth. After Sam is injured, Dean is faced with a difficult choice. Stay to protect his brother or save an entire town from an ambitious Necromancer. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **It's true, they belong to someone else. _Sigh._

**Thank You: **To Charlie Girl 79 and Wysawyg for beta'ing.

**Timeline: **Set sometime between "Hunted" and "Heart."

**Warning: **May contain minor season 2 spoilers. I'll try to warn you at the beginning of the chapter if it contains spoilers. I may miss minor events, but if one of the big spoilers pops up, I'll let you know.

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**02:34:59 Sunday, **_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

Dean was taking his turn at digging. Great mounds of mud surrounded him as he dug deeper, and sank lower into the grave. This was his third round of digging this time out. The grave was old, and apparently six feet under was only an estimate nearly one hundred years ago. _Chink! _The shovel made contact with the coffin.

"Yahtzee!" Dean called up to his brother. He wedged his boot between the edge of the coffin and the grave wall. The remaining mud on top of the coffin made it heavy, and Dean had to scrunch down in the narrow confines to get both hands on the wooden lid and lift. The old wood creaked in disapproval, and nearly a century old gust of stale, necrotic air blasted Dean in the face. He coughed several times, and wiped a dirty sleeve back and forth under his nose in a vain attempt to rid it of the smell.

Sam's face appeared at the top of the mud-slick pit. "Can you get out, or do you need some help?"

"I got it," Dean assured him, balancing precariously along the coffin's edge. He handed Sam his shovel.

"If you're sure, I'm going back to the car for the amulet. I think it is tied to Harrigan, and I want to compare the engraving on the amulet with the grave marker," Sam explained.

"Go," Dean said waving his arm at Sam. "I got it."

Sam's head disappeared once more, and Dean tried to gain purchase on the slippery mud-covered edge. He could see Harrigan's corpse resting in eternal repose as he narrowly avoided falling back into the coffin. After the initial blast of air, the grave was relatively odorless. It still stank of death, but the distinctive scent of decay was missing from a grave so old. All these years of hunting, and the smell still bothered him.

Dean gripped the top of one mound, and was about to heave himself out of the grave, when the cloud covered sky chose that precise moment to release a deluge of water on the inhabitants below. "You've got to be kidding me," Dean grumbled, repositioning his hands. In a graceless scramble, Dean managed to pull himself out of the freshly dug grave.

Rain pelted him from above with a vengeance. He wiped rain water out of his eyes, and searched for the salt. Spying it quickly, he sprinkled it generously on Harrigan's body, and reached for the kerosene. Despite the darkness, he could see Sam in the distance, returning from the Impala with what Dean assumed was the amulet dangling from his fingers.

That's when he saw it, the lightning fast shadow that morphed into a flesh-eating, ghoulish creature the moment before it hit Sam. Teeth gnashing, and claws ripping, it had Sam on the ground before Dean could offer a warning shout.

"Sammy!"

**08:45:23 the Previous Thursday, **_Defiance, OH_

"I think I found something," Sam stated over the top of the laptop screen.

"Yeah?" Dean replied setting down his copy of _Weekly World News._

"Yeah," Sam replied. "There've been reports of grave-robbing over in Flatt Plains, Iowa."

"That sounds like a police sort of problem, not ours," Dean disagreed.

"It does," Sam agreed. "Until you get to what is missing from the graves."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "The bodies?" he guessed.

"The bodies," Sam affirmed. "You think it is some kind of Necromancer?"

"Either that or some seriously messed up freak," Dean replied taking a gulp of his coffee. Dean did the reverse blow with his mouth hanging open. The coffee was extremely hot.

Sam wrinkled his face at Dean's antics. "You ever think of checking the temperature before you take a huge swig?" he asked.

"Duh up," Dean replied, his mouth still full of coffee. He swallowed and added, "Anything else?"

"Hmm…" Sam hummed his eyes scanning the article. "Only that the grave-robbing started two weeks ago. The local paper is hinting strongly that it is connected to the recent influx of new comers to the area."

"They're easy to blame," Dean replied knowingly. "Not that we should count them out." He popped an entire biscuit into his mouth.

"Iowa is a strange place for this to start, you have to admit," Sam said.

Dean swallowed the biscuit and chased it with another swig of too hot coffee. "How far are we from Flatt Plains?" he asked.

Keys taps followed Dean's question. "Five hundred and seventy-two miles so, we are only four hours away," Sam quipped cutting the time in half.

"Funny," Dean replied with a grin. "I can make it in two."

The Impala sped down the highway at nearly seventy-five miles per hour. One of the things Dean appreciated about the rural Midwest was its absolute flatness. And, since it was mid spring rather than summer, the fields were empty, muddy acres of barren land. No corn as high as an elephant's eye, to block his view of the road, or possible law enforcement officials hoping to catch an errant speeder on an otherwise boring strip of highway.

Dean cranked the radio as, "Highway to Hell," blasted out the speakers. Sam looked over at Dean, turned back to the side window, and grinned. A new hunt, a road trip and some classic rock always seemed to work wonders on Dean's disposition. "How far are we from Flatt Plains?" Sam asked as the dying refrains thumped to a close.

"About five more hours," Dean replied turning down the radio to hear Sam. "Do you need to stop?"

"I wouldn't mind stretching my legs," Sam replied stretching his long legs as best as he could in the seat. "And another coffee, and a snack."

Dean looked over at Sam in surprise. In his opinion Sam still ate like a teenager at times. Eating nothing for days at a time, and then suddenly remembering he needed to eat, and eating every two hours. Today was apparently one of those days. "Sure thing," Dean replied. "We could use some gas anyway."

The green highway sign several minutes later showed the mileage to Peru as ten miles. Dean racked his memory for the reason the name sounded familiar. When it hit him, Dean smiled. "Next stop, Peru," Dean announced.

Dean sounded entirely too enthusiastic about a delay, and it raised the red flag for Sam. "Dean, what's so special about Peru?" he asked.

"Nothing, why?" Dean replied quickly, not averting his gaze from the road.

"You sound a little chipper about a stop," Sam replied. "You never like to stop."

"Dude, first of all, chipper? I don't think I've ever been what could be labeled as chipper," Dean stated. "Secondly, I don't mind stops. It beats running out of gas in the middle of nowhere any day."

"We're not exactly in the middle of nowhere," Sam defended weakly. "The next town is less than ten miles away."

"Would you like to walk?" Dean asked with mock confusion, baiting Sam.

"No," Sam replied giving Dean a dirty look.

"Then we fill her up," Dean replied.

"Dean, that argument doesn't even make sense, and…." Sam trailed off as they neared Peru. Even from this distance, the flags and balloons could easily be seen. Sam knitted his brow in confusion, and turned the radio off. He rolled down the window and listened for a moment. The distinctive melody of band music drifted across the desolate landscape. The melody sounded familiar, but Sam could not quite place it. Realization dawned on Sam's features. "No," he said simply.

"No what?" Dean asked with a smirk.

"No, we aren't stopping here..." Sam started. The view in front of him caused him to lose his concentration. The road was filled with band members as a parade marched in front of the car. "The road is blocked off," Sam remarked, stating the obvious.

"Looks like we'll have to hoof it from here," Dean observed pulling the Impala to a stop along a side street. "We'll get some supplies, find out where the closest, accessible gas station is, and be on our way."

"Look, I'll just wait here-uh!" Sam shouted, jumping in his seat. Outside the passenger window was a man in a bright yellow jumpsuit, with curly red hair and makeup. Sam glared at Dean. "Is there something about Peru you may have forgotten to tell me?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"You know," Dean replied opening the door. "Now that you mention it, I do seem to remember something about a circus festival."

"Dean," Sam protested as Dean shut the door cutting off any further commentary. "Dean!" Sam called to his brother's retreating form.

Dean did not stop, but instead counted slowly in his head. _Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one,_ _and now, _he thought, and pointed his finger at Sam as he materialized on his right side.

"Dean," Sam snapped. "Let's just go."

"Live a little, Sam," Dean replied. "We're just staying long enough to pick up some food, and get gas. Ah, smell that? That's the scent of carnival food, elephant ears, corn dogs, caramel corn, and cotton candy. What better place to get a snack?"

"Dean, if I ate half that stuff, I'd be sick all the way to Iowa," Sam complained. "You're the only one around here with a cast iron stomach."

The music reached a crescendo and Dean's response was lost to the noise of the crowd and the band. Dean slipped easily between the people in the thick crowd, his ability to anticipate the movement of others an automatic response. Normally, Sam would have kept steady pace with Dean, equally adept in the fine art of hunting and stalking. Today, however, he was distracted by the ever-present threat of the grease-painted ones.

Sam spotted Dean at a concession stand. By the time Sam reached him, Dean was already munching on a corn dog, and drinking lemonade. "Come on, Dean," Sam stated firmly. "Let's go."

"I thought you were hungry," Dean countered, whirling around to face Sam.

"Changed my mind," Sam replied simply. He was annoyed by the suspicion that Dean had only agreed to stop in Peru to torment him. Truth be told, he had been a little secretly amused by Dean's discomfort on the airplane last year, but at least he had not dragged him into the air for nothing. They had been hunting a demon then, and besides, Dean seemed to be getting a little too much enjoyment out of this.

"Okay," Dean acquiesced. "I already found out where we can fill up the car, and you can buy a coffee and something to eat there."

Sam squinted in disbelief. "That was too easy," he remarked. "What's up?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," Dean assured him. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He whirled around to head back to the Impala, and came face to face with a blue-haired, white-faced, clown in red suspenders. Sam stood stock still his mouth popping open and closed like a suffocating fish.

"You'll have to excuse him," Dean replied after a beat, grabbing Sam's arm. "He's a little shy."

Sam did not even have the sense to glare at Dean, until Dean had hustled him nearly an entire block away. "A little shy?" he asked.

"Would you rather I said, coulrophobic?" Dean asked with a smirk.

Sam shot Dean a look a surprise. "Big word," he quipped. "Are you sure it means what you think it does?"

"Hey, it concerns my little brother," Dean replied sincerely. "Of course I know."

It was the times like this, when Dean followed up being a jerk with genuine concern or caring that made it difficult for Sam to stay angry with him. He slugged Dean on the arm, and continued walking away from the noisy circus parade taking place on Main Street.

Sam was striding fast, concentrating only on getting back to the car as quickly as possible. He was blocking the sights and sounds around him, and did not notice the thinning of the crowd as he approached the street where the Impala was parked.

"Sam, pay attention!" Dean snapped, yanking hard on Sam's arm.

Sam was pulled from his reverie with a jerk. "What?" he asked.

Dean simply pointed at the street, and seconds later a car shot past them from a side street. "You get yourself killed, Sam," Dean stated sternly. "And I swear, I'll dig up your body and salt and burn your ass myself."

"Sorry," Sam replied contritely. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."

"You guess?" Dean replied sarcastically. He slapped Sam on the chest. "It's clear, let's go."

Sam followed Dean to the Impala. "How far is the gas station?" Sam asked climbing into the car.

"Right there," Dean replied nodding his head.

Sam looked down the road, and saw the gas station three blocks away. They had traipsed through the circus festival for no reason. Sam sighed loudly. "Figures," he muttered.

Dean only smiled, and pulled out into the traffic. Three short blocks later, he pulled into the gas station. He swiped his credit card, and started to fill the Impala. "Hey, pick me up something while you're in there, okay?" he shouted to Sam.

Sam waved a hand at Dean without turning around and entered the small food mart. Sam filled a Styrofoam cup, relishing the delightful aroma of nearly fresh coffee. He added five creamers and six sugars into the small cup, and stirred until the coffee was a light brown color. Sam picked up the voices of the cashier and one of the customers, and instantly wished he had not. He turned his head slightly to look at the men at the counter.

"Cops say it's just a bunch of kids playing a joke. You know how crazy it gets around here during the circus festival," the customer with the case of Heineken beer stated. "I don't buy it. We've never had anything that crazy happen around here before."

Sam popped a lid on his cup, and wandered over to the cold beverages for a couple of bottled waters, and a cola for Dean. He kept on eye on the men, and an ear tuned to their conversation. He toyed briefly with grabbing Dean a turkey sandwich from the cold case, but the watery texture of the meat was a strong deterrent.

"Don't you think you're blowing this a little out of proportion, Jake?" the cashier asked. "It's only a couple of frightened old ladies. They probably stayed up too late watching reruns of the X-Files or MSTK3."

"You really believe that, Matt?" Jake asked. "And I doubt either of those old ladies has even heard of the X-Files, more or less MSTK3."

Sam grabbed a bag of chips, and a package smoked jerky. He slowly worked his way to the front while maintaining the pretense of shopping. He made a mental note of Googling MSTK3.

"All I know is there isn't any such thing as ghosts," Matt replied. "That'll be nine dollars and ninety-eight cents."

"I don't know about that," Jake replied. "My grandma said she saw my grandpa after he died. He was in the basement pointing inside the crawlspace of his workshop. When she sent my dad in there, he found almost ten thousand dollars worth of rolled quarters duct-taped to the ceiling."

"That's because your grandpa lived through the Great Depression, and your grandma is a nutcase," Matt replied placing the beer in a paper bag, and taking Jake's money. "Doesn't mean anything."

Jake laughed. "Well, you got me there, Matthew, but I still say there's something strange going on."

Sam decided now was the time to interject. "Sorry to interrupt, but what are you guys talking about?" Sam asked setting down his purchases.

Jake turned to face Sam, his weathered face lit up in a smile. "At last, someone who is willing to listen to reason," he said.

"You call that reason?" Matt asked sarcastically.

Jake dismissed Matt with a wave, and turned his attention back to Sam. "There have been two sightings in the last five days of a ghost at the Mark Antony Hotel. Two women have seen the ghost of a young woman walking down the stairs, and out into the garden. They say her throat was cut."

Sam wrinkled his nose in faux disgust. "Her throat was cut? So, uh, the Mark Antony huh? I guess I know where we won't be staying tonight."

"I sure as hell wouldn't," Jake agreed.

"That everything for you?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "My brother paid for the gas at the pump."

"Yep, yep, I see," Matt replied nodding his head. "That'll be eight eighty-seven."

Sam handed Matt ten dollars and asked, "Were the women who saw the ghost hurt?"

"Nope, just scared," Jake replied. "Can't really blame them either."

"No, I guess not," Sam agreed accepting his change from the clerk. "Thanks for the tip."

"Sure thing," Jake replied. "Have fun at the festival."

"Uh, sure," Sam replied hesitantly. He joined Dean, who was already in the Impala ready to hit the road. "I picked you up some jerky," he stated tossing the bag to Dean.

"Great, let's go," Dean replied throwing the Impala into Drive.

"I hate to say this," Sam replied. "But, I don't think we can leave town yet."

Dean cracked a lop-sided grin. "Change your mind about the corn dogs?" he asked.

"No," Sam replied, opening one bottle of water and taking a long swig before continuing. "There've been a couple of ghost sightings at the Mark Antony Hotel. Do you think we should check it out before we leave?"

"Anyone hurt?" Dean asked suddenly all business.

"No," Sam replied. "And it doesn't sound like it is escalating, but the witnesses said it appeared her throat was cut."

"That means she could go from Casper to Constance Welch without warning," Dean theorized. "We should spend the night there, and see if we can figure it out easily. If not, we head to Iowa where the really nasty stuff is happening and come back later."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Sam agreed. "Let's go check in."

It turned out the name was more prestigious than the hotel itself. The two story old mansion was in a mild state of disrepair. White peeling paint, broken shutters, and the sidewalk was cracked in several places with weeds poking through. Dean pulled the Impala to a stop outside the main entrance. "It certainly looks like prime haunted real estate," Dean remarked.

Sam gave Dean a look of disbelief. For a seasoned hunter, Dean seemed to make snap judgments about the appearance of places rather easily. "You should feel right at home," Sam replied earning him a huge grin from Dean.

Without a further word, Dean exited the Impala and retrieved their duffle bags. Sam emerged moments later with the laptop, and the snacks from the food mart in tow. The boys entered through the main door, and stepped into the foyer.

The carved wooden ceiling loomed two stories above them. The staircase to the second floor was open to the foyer. A dusty, crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, clinking in the breeze from the open door and scattering rainbows around the room.

Looking around, Dean raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in a clear question of, _was I wrong? _Sam shook his head in response. This hotel was prime haunted real estate.

"May I help you gentlemen?" the motel clerk asked.

The brothers turned as one, and faced the clerk. He was a short, thin, wisp of a man with dark hair, and a handlebar mustache. He was sporting not only wire-rimmed glasses, but a black bow tie with his white shirt and black trousers. Dean did not know if the man was attempting to dress in period clothing, or this was the way he normally dressed. Frankly, it did not seem to matter. It was as funny as hell.

"Looking for a room," Dean responded, swallowing back any one of ten different sarcastic or rude, albeit funny, replies.

"Well, I assumed as much," snapped the slender, little man. "You certainly aren't here to purchase sundries. It appears you arrived with provisions."

"What?" Dean asked.

"Uh, we would like to rent a room with two beds for the night, please," Sam interjected, rescuing Dean from the vitriolic clerk.

"Certainly," the clerk snipped, wrinkling his nose several times causing the handlebar mustache to quiver. This time Dean could not quite suppress his laughter, and it came out as a strangled, choking noise. The clerk narrowed his eyes at Dean in a tacit expression of disapproval.

"Here is your key to room 212," the clerk said handing the key to Sam. "My name is William. If you have any concerns or questions, please direct them to me at the front desk. How will you be paying for the room?"

Dean handed William a credit card and asked, "What time is check out?"

"Eleven a.m.," William responded, handing Dean back his card. "Will that be all?"

Dean nodded at Sam who jutted his chin in return and headed up the stairs to their room. Dean leaned on the front desk and said, "We heard there've been ghost sightings this week. I'm kind of a fan of ghost stories. Is there any truth to it?"

Dean honestly expected the sour little man in front of him to wrinkle his nose in disgust, or snap at him with a sharp comment. What he did not expect was for William's face to brighten and a small, somewhat forced smile to grace his features.

"You aren't here for the circus festival?" William asked his smile waning.

"Ah, no," Dean replied. "In fact, my brother hates that sort of thing."

"Thank goodness," William sighed. "I understand the festival is good for the town, but it is not good for my floors." He swept his arm towards the scratches on the hardwood floor.

"Yeah, that's gotta be a pain," Dean replied. "About that ghost?"

"Certainly," William replied straightening the pens on the desk. "The apparition two of our women guests have seen is our missing housekeeper Maureen. She's been missing for nearly a week."

Dean was momentarily dumbfounded by the sudden about face from the previously cantankerous clerk. "What makes you think Maureen is dead?" he asked finally.

"Oh, I don't know that she is," William said dismissively. He leaned in and whispered. "But her boyfriend was an aggressive thug. She hasn't been back to work in a week, and the descriptions of the spirit match those of Maureen."

"Sounds pretty convincing to me," Dean agreed. "Do you know where she lived?"

"Absolutely not," William replied with a frown. "That would be inappropriate."

Dean shook his head at William's double standard. Knowing where a co-worker lived, bad; gossiping about said co-worker, good to go. "Thanks," Dean replied with a smirk and a head jerk.

"You are welcome," William replied moving the bell on the desk an infinitesimal distance on the desk.

Dean grabbed the duffel bags, and headed up the stairs to see how Sam was coming along with the research. He tried the door, and was pleased to discover Sam had left the door unlocked.

"Hey, Sam, how's the research going?" Dean asked walking into the room.

Sam jumped and turned away from the computer, obscuring most of the monitor screen with his shoulders. "Fine. What were you able to find out?"

Dean eyed the computer, but made no move to discover what Sam was hiding. "William thinks the ghost is Maureen the housekeeper. Said it looks like Maureen and that she wasn't dating the boyfriend of the year," he said moving closer to Sam.

"Yeah?" Sam replied twisting slightly to keep his shoulders between Dean and the computer. "Mrs. St. John in room 214 said she thought it looked like Maureen too. Except she went so far as to say she heard Maureen and William getting into a row about a week ago."

"A row?" Dean asked amusement lacing his tone.

"Her words, not mine," Sam replied, mirroring Dean's movement in an apparent attempt to keep Dean from seeing what was on the screen.

"With William?" Dean asked as he feigned a lunge to the left, but sprang up on Sam's right. Sam spun around trying block the monitor, but nearly fell out of the small chair in his haste. "MST3K? They putting out another movie or something?"

"Uh," Sam paused. "Something like that."

"You don't even know what it is, do you?" Dean asked, the look on Sam's face affirming his belief. "Sam, sometimes I have to question your Geek Master level."

"Dean, Geek Masters wouldn't have levels, because they're_ Masters_," Sam replied emphasizing the last word.

"Never mind," Dean replied dismissing the notion with a head shake. "I don't question it." He walked away from Sam and over to a bed, sitting down on the edge. He sank backwards into the dip in the center of the bed, and wriggled quickly to right himself.

"The housekeeper's name is Maureen Sanderson, and she has not been reported missing by her family," Sam stated several minutes later. "Her father is Maurice Sanderson, of Sanderson's Construction Company. Her mother died in '98."

"Maybe she doesn't talk to daddy dearest," Dean replied. "It doesn't mean she's not missing."

"Agreed, but her last listed address is 674 Filmont Avenue," Sam replied looking over at Dean. "The same as Maurice Sanderson."

Dean stopped playing with the tassels on the gold thread, crocheted duvet, and returned Sam's gaze. "Sounds like the place to start," he remarked. He saw the pained look on Sam's face and in a moment of generosity offered his brother a pity out. "I'll go talk to Maurice, and you can stay here and dig up more information on Maureen."

"You sure?" Sam asked. Sam knew he should go with Dean, but he was going to stay here.

"Someone has to stay here, interview the old ladies and lay down the lines of salt," Dean replied. "That definitely sounds like a job for you."

"Funny," Sam replied. "If you find out the boyfriend's name, give me a call."

"Will do," Dean replied heading for the door. "And Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam replied looking up from the computer once again.

"Don't get so caught up in research that you forget to lay the salt lines," Dean cautioned.

"That only happened one time," Sam protested.

"It only takes once," Dean replied knowingly.

"I was twelve," Sam defended. "And I did remember the salt lines…eventually."

"After Dad and I got back," Dean reminded him.

"Dad really gave me hell for that," Sam said, remembering. He ran his fingers through his hair trying unsuccessfully to push away the memory of the dressing down his father had given him that night.

"You deserved it," Dean stated lightly thumping his hand on the doorjamb.

"Yeah," Sam replied, "Especially, because I wasn't really caught up in research."

"Alright, Sam," Dean replied enthusiastically with a smirk.

"Not that," Sam said correctly reading the look on Dean's face. "I was reading, 'Lord of the Flies,' for Mrs. Denelli's lit class. I had a report due in the morning."

"Sam, Sam, Sam," Dean responded in a pitying tone, and a corresponding shake of the head.

"Dean, just go," Sam replied. "I promise. I'll lay the salt lines, brush my teeth, and be in bed before eleven."

"Ha ha," Dean replied. "I'll call you if I find out anything interesting."

"You do that," Sam replied his head already buried back in the computer. He barely registered the sound of the door closing with a quiet click.

TBC

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AN: Feedback welcome!

Yes, there really is a Circus Festival in Peru, Indiana. When I saw the circus festival information, I couldn't resist having the boys on a small layover! However, it takes place during the first two weeks of July, not mid spring if any of you are overcome by a sudden urge to attend.


	2. Chapter 2

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **Kripke? Never heard of him. Oh wait….

**Disclaimerx2: **May contain minor season 2 spoilers.

**Thank You: **To Wysawyg for extremely awesome beta'ing and Jen B for helping me through a writer's crunch by sending me jokes and for helping me, "fall into the action."

**A Special Thank You: **To nyxlily for having the courage to send me constructive feedback and for being kind enough to send it in a private message. I think I deleted almost 2/3 of them in this chapter. I hope you notice the difference! (c;

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"_Not that," Sam said correctly reading the look on Dean's face. "I was reading, 'Lord of the Flies,' for Mrs. Denelli's lit class. I had a report due in the morning." _

"_Sam, Sam, Sam," Dean responded in a pitying tone. _

"_Dean, just go," Sam replied. "I promise. I'll lay the salt lines, brush my teeth and be in bed before eleven."_

"_Ha ha," Dean replied. "I'll call you if I find out anything interesting."_

"_You do that," Sam replied his head already buried back in the computer. He barely registered the sound of the door closing with a quiet click._

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**22:47:51 Thursday, **_674 Filmont Avenue, Peru, Indiana_

Dean sat across the coffee table from Maurice Sanderson. He was a big, hulking form of a man, his immense shoulder width easily filling the overstuffed arm chair. "You say the desk clerk told you Maureen's boyfriend was a real bruiser?" Maurice asked in a deep, baritone voice.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "He hinted that if Maureen was having troubles, it was probably due to her boyfriend."

Maurice leaned back in his chair and tugged at the hem of his red cardigan. The muscles in his jaw twitched several times before a low, rumbling laugh emerged from deep within his chest. Whatever reaction Dean had been expecting, this wasn't it. "Mr. Sanderson, are you okay?" Dean asked concern evident in his expression.

"Son, I think you've been led down a merry path," Maurice replied with a smile. He leaned forward and poured steaming water out of a ceramic teapot into a delicate china cup. His beefy hands dwarfed the cup as he held it out for Dean. "Have some tea, Mr. Elden. Let's talk."

Dean watched as Maurice poured another cup of water and dunked a silver ball several times into the cup. Dean lifted the silver chain, pulled the ball out of his cup and eyed it suspiciously. Setting it on the tray next to Maurice's, he grabbed a handful of cookies. "Have you seen Maureen lately?" Dean asked taking a sip of the tea. He refrained from making a face at the orange-spice flavor. He definitely preferred a strong cup of coffee to tea.

"As a matter of fact, no," Maurice replied taking a cookie off the tray. "I believe she's been working late at the motel."

"You could say that," Dean muttered under his breath.

……………………………………………………………………

Sam leaned back in the chair, stretching his neck and shoulder muscles. Hunching over the laptop for extended periods of time always left him a little stiff. He glanced at his watch and noticed that somehow several hours had passed. It was nearly midnight. "Damn!" he exclaimed pushing away from the desk and knocking the chair over in his haste.

Only years of physical training kept Sam from landing face first on the hardwood floor when his feet became entangled in the chair. Instead, he performed a graceless, stumbling dance on his way to the weapons bag. Unzipping the bag, Sam retrieved the can of salt and proceeded to lay the lines of salt in front of the windows and the door. Whatever else happened, Dean could not harass him about forgetting the salt.

Satisfied he had lived up to his responsibilities Sam walked over to the computer and prepared to follow up on his previous discovery when a scream sounded in the hall. Grabbing his shotgun, Sam quickly loaded the rock salt rounds and cautiously entered the hall.

It was dark in the hall as only two small wall sconces lit the long hallway. Sam took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "Help me! She's here!" a woman's voice called from the stairway. Sam ran towards the end of the hall.

The spirit stood on the stairs in a long, flowing white gown. Her back was towards Sam as she walked slowly down the stairway. Another woman stood lower down on the stairs, a terrified expression on her face as she watched the spirit moving closer. She noticed Sam standing at the top of the stairway and shouted, "Help me!"

"Stand very still," Sam cautioned. "Don't make any sudden movements."

The spirit slowly turned towards Sam and cast her eyes upwards to meet his. Sam narrowed his eyes, his research verified. Sam slowly raised his shot gun in full view and took aim.

"No wait, stop!" the spirit's terrified shout echoed off the carved wooden ceiling.

Sam did not lower his shot gun, but replied, "What's the matter, Maureen?"

"Are you crazy?" Maureen asked, gesticulating wildly. "You're going to shoot me!"

"I thought you were a ghost," Sam replied managing both a condescending and insincere tone.

"Then why on earth would you try to shoot me?" Maureen demanded angrily.

"It's only rock salt," Sam reassured her, lowering the shotgun. "It wouldn't have killed you."

"Why would you shoot a ghost with rock salt?" Maureen demanded. She had changed from a ghost, to a scared woman, back to an irate housekeeper in less than five minutes. "What were you hoping to accomplish?"

Sam did not answer, but instead took several steps down the stairs to stand face to face with Maureen. He lowered his voice, "Were you and William trying to drum up more business for the hotel?"

"Excuse me, what exactly is going on here?" William demanded appearing at the bottom of the stairs. The other woman was gone and Sam assumed she had left to tell William what was happening.

"He pulled a gun on me, Will," Maureen whined running down the stairs and standing behind William. Sam snorted softly, at the sight of little William standing guard in front of Maureen in a protective stance. If it came to blows, the fight would be over before it began.

"Is this true?" William asked his eyes flashing. He took a step towards Sam and Sam squared his shoulders and tightened his stance. William noticed the change in Sam's demeanor and stopped his approach.

"I think the bigger question is why the hell you're yelling at my little brother," Dean asked with a deadly calm from the doorway. Sam looked over William's head at his older brother. Dean's eyes reflected his amusement at William's obvious and immediate distress at being surrounded by the Winchester brothers. His eyes also reflected a flittering emotion of concern, quickly buried with skilled ease.

"He, he, he pulled a gun on Maureen," William stuttered turning sideways. He kept his back pressed against the railing so he could see both Sam and Dean, but not have his back to either of them.

"Don't you mean the ghost of Maureen?" Dean asked with thinly veiled sarcasm. "She is a ghost isn't she? Look at the blood on her throat, the white dress, the hollow look in her eyes. She looks awful."

"Hey!" the forgotten Maureen protested loudly.

"Daddy says hello by the way," Dean quipped nodding in Maureen's direction.

"I uh, I mean," Maureen started to explain. She pulled on her gown and flapped her hands in meaningless gestures.

"You and William staged this whole thing in an attempt to drum up business for the hotel, didn't you?" Sam asked again. "You thought a haunted hotel would draw some of the tourists from the circus festival off the main strip and back over here."

"Yes, alright yes," Maureen admitted. "We didn't see the harm in a fake haunting. You boys are crazy. No one in their right mind would think you can shoot a ghost and why rock salt?"

"Actually, salt has been a symbol of purity since ancient times and many cultures believe salt wards off evil spirits," a new, unidentified voice said behind Sam.

Sam was surprised someone not only knew about salt's ancient symbolism, but also seemed to understand how it translated into rock salt in a shotgun. He did not turn around to face his newfound supporter, but kept his gaze fixed on William and Maureen. Maureen was staring apprehensively over Sam's shoulder, presumably at the man standing behind him.

"I say we forget all about this," Dean suggested moving into the foyer and closing the door behind him. "It's late and some of us have to hit the road pretty early tomorrow." Things were going downhill fast when Dean became the voice of reason.

"Your brother aimed a gun at Maureen," William reiterated taking a step towards Sam.

Dean closed the distance between William and himself in a heartbeat. He leaned in close to William and enunciated every word, "You mean he aimed a gun at the spirit of Maureen. You can't kill something that's already dead. I think you need to forget all about this and go to bed." Dean emphasized his last words with a couple of finger jabs to William's chest.

"An excellent suggestion," William agreed. "I believe I will attempt to calm Mrs. Henderson's nerves. For heaven's sake, Maureen, stop gaping and go wash off that make-up." Without a further word William spun on his heel, trudged down the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

Maureen stood on the stairs for several moments sniveling and wringing her hands. "You really need to go wash up," Sam said gently laying a hand on her shoulder. Maureen turned to Sam and enveloped him in a hug, sobbing quietly into his chest. Sam returned the hug after a startled pause and tried to figure out how he had gone from an evil, gun toting, crazy man to a comforting port in the storm.

Dean offered Sam a small grin, but made no attempt to extricate his little brother from Maureen's death grip. "I'm heading to bed," he said as he passed by Sam.

"Dean," Sam whispered harshly, "A little help here." His pleas fell on deaf ears as he watched Dean ascend the stairs and silently slip past him. He patted Maureen several times on the back and gently peeled her away from his chest. Her nose was white and her eyes were swollen. Tear tracks streaked through the gray makeup covering her face revealing blotchy red patches of skin.

"I'm sorry," Maureen hiccupped. "We really thought it would help bring people to the hotel."

"It did," Sam replied forgivingly. "Dean and I showed up, didn't we?"

Maureen managed a watery smile and stated, "I think I should go home now." She pulled away from Sam, dabbed her eyes with the collar of her gown and headed down the stairs. Sam stood there for a moment before turning around and heading back to the room.

Sam's hand was resting on the doorknob when the voice from before remarked, "That was really quick thinking with the rock salt."

Sam turned his head only far enough to see the man through his peripheral vision. "Thanks, my dad was a marine. Taught us to think on our feet." The best cover story was always the truth. Not the full unbridled truth, but a glimmer of it usually went further than a lie.

"I'm a professor down at the University of Indiana," the professor continued. "I don't know anyone outside of a handful of anthropologists that would have thought to make that connection. I must say, I'm impressed."

Sam turned around to properly thank the professor and startled back against the door. The professor was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a bright red wig and face paint. "Ah, thanks," Sam replied cautiously. He edged closer to the opening of the door and grabbed the door handle behind his back.

The professor grabbed Sam's free hand and gave it a quick shake. "You ever make it to the university, look me up," he said. "Professor Garner, Anthropology." Professor Garner handed Sam his business card.

Sam accepted the business card, nodded his head and pulled open the door slipping quickly inside. He found Dean standing in the bathroom washing his face. Dean looked up when he walked up behind him and talked to Sam from his reflection in the mirror. "You look soggy," Dean laughed.

"Yeah, thanks for rescuing me back there," Sam replied sarcastically. "My shirt is soaked and I have gray make-up stains down the front." He chose to leave out the incident with the professor in the hall. There was no need to give Dean any more ammunition to use against him.

Dean dried his face with a small hand towel, wadded it up and tossed it on the counter in the corner. He turned back towards Sam and said, "I didn't think you looked like you needed rescuing. She is a pretty girl underneath that ghost get-up."

"She's also engaged," Sam responded. "To William."

"I know," Dean replied clapping Sam on the back on his way past. "Her dad told me. She's named after Maurice, she's engaged to William and strangely enough although she was born and raised here, she's afraid of clowns."

"That's just good sense," Sam replied flatly. He walked over to his bed and flopped down, closing his eyes. He heard the metal squeak of springs protesting when Dean sat down on the opposite bed. After a few moments he could feel Dean watching him, so he opened one eye and squinted at Dean. "What?" Sam asked.

"I'm assuming you figured that out pretty quickly," Dean said. "So, what else did you uncover?"

"The vanishing bodies in Flatt Plains do seem to have one thing in common," Sam replied resting his head on his bent arm. "They're all related to members of the city council."

"That seems a little too convenient to be a coincidence," Dean replied turning off the light on the bedside table throwing the room into darkness.

"That was my thought as well," Sam replied. After a pause he added, "You couldn't have spent all that time talking to Maurice."

"I didn't," Dean replied the smile on his face evident in his voice. "I stopped at the bar to play pool."

"You mean hustle pool," Sam corrected.

"Yeah," Dean admitted. "But there was a group of people from the festival playing something like darts, so I joined them instead."

"Something like darts?" Sam questioned. Dean swore he could almost see the frown on Sam's face despite the darkness enshrouding the room.

"They were using knives instead of darts," Dean replied simply. Sometimes telling the truth should be done the same way you ripped off a bandage, as quickly as possible and in one smooth motion.

"You played a game of darts, with knives, with circus performers who probably do it for a living?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Making the win all the sweeter," Dean replied rolling onto his back and folding his arms under his head. "Your big brother is seventy-five dollars richer tonight."

"My big brother is a lucky man," Sam replied toeing off his boots. The first boot hit the ground with a thud, followed quickly by the other. Sam wiggled his toes enjoying the cool freedom found in sock clad feet.

"I hear he's good looking and talented as well," Dean replied following Sam's example and kicking off his boots.

"Modest too," Sam replied sleepily.

Dean chuckled softly. "G'night, Sammy," he said.

"Good night, Dean," Sam replied with a yawn.

Dean lay awake for nearly an hour after Sam fell asleep. There was something about the case in Flatt Plains that was causing his big brother instincts to itch. Finally, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep.

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**13:23:54 Friday, **_20 miles east of Flatt Plains, Iowa_

"I still don't see why we couldn't stay for breakfast," Dean complained.

"You had three corn dogs and an elephant ear this morning," Sam reminded him. "Where did you even find a concession stand open that early?"

"It wasn't open," Dean replied glancing sideways at his brother. "She made them special for me."

"Course she did," Sam replied. "Why am I even surprised anymore?"

Dean simply smirked and turned his attention back to the road. Dean had been driving for nearly four hours, but they were finally close to Flatt Plains. He thought back to the days of trying to keep Sammy entertained for hours in the car while their father drove to his next hunt. He couldn't imagine Sam playing the alphabet game anymore, so he invented another.

"Who would you rather sleep with," Dean asked, "Lindsay Lohan or Alicia Keys?"

"I'm not playing this game," Sam announced. He had not slept well in the creaky, lumpy bed and he was pretty sure one of the springs was broken and had poked him in the back most of the night.

"Come on, Sam," Dean replied teasingly. "Hot, party girl or hot, smart girl?"

"Alicia," Sam replied with a sigh.

"I figured," Dean replied with a nod. "Your turn."

"Who would win in a fight?" Sam asked, caving to Dean. "Indiana Jones or Han Solo?"

"That's a hard one," Dean replied. He paused a moment giving serious consideration to the question. "Assuming no weapons of any kind just hand to hand combat, I'm going with Indy."

"Why?" Sam asked, warming to the game and turning towards Dean.

"Because Han was quick with his blaster and a good pilot, but we never saw him fight much hand to hand," Dean explained. "Indy kicked ass."

Sam was no longer paying attention to Dean's response; he was looking at something in the distance. Dean followed Sam's line of sight, but did not see anything worthy of such intense concentration. "Sam?" Dean asked waving his hand in front of Sam's face.

"Dean, look over there," Sam said pointing towards the approaching cemetery.

Dean looked towards the cemetery at the tree-lined expanse and granite reminders of lives past. "What?" he asked.

Sam squinted, a look of confusion gracing his features before disappearing again. "There!"

This time Dean caught it, the flash of a shadow between the trees. The quick, jerky movements of something quicker than one would expect. "It's out during the day?" Dean asked. "That's risky. Guess it's time to find out what's going on."

The tires on the Impala squealed in protest as Dean jerked the wheel sharply to the right and onto the quiet, gravel drive of the cemetery entrance. Sam grabbed a hold of the passenger door to avoid leaning into Dean with the sudden turn. "Dean," Sam snapped. "You might want to slow down a little. You almost hit a squirrel."

"Doing some overtime for PETA?" Dean asked. "Job isn't keeping you busy enough?"

"Just slow down," Sam cautioned, a grin teasing across his face despite the tone. "The local fauna aren't ready for you."

"They never are, Sammy," Dean replied with a smirk. "They never are." Dean pulled the car to a stop near the manicured shrubs encircling the parking area. He slipped out the door, and opened the trunk. By the time Sam joined him, he was already tucking his Colt into his waistband.

Sam reached into the weapons cache and pulled out the Beretta. He tucked it into his jeans and rummaged around for his knife. "Dean, there's a chance this thing is really just a person, you know."

"I know," Dean replied tucking a wicked looking blade into his inside jacket pocket with a lop-sided grin. "That's why I'm leaving the really good stuff here." He closed the trunk lid and stated, "Let's go."

Sam nodded and followed Dean towards the trees where they had spotted the shadowy figure from the car. He veered right at Dean's hand signal and circled around towards brush line. He peered in the direction Dean had headed and spotted Dean just in time to see him disappear between the trees.

A movement to Sam's left caught his attention and he crouched lower to the ground and paused. When nothing materialized, Sam proceeded to head behind the brush and meet back with Dean. He was almost to the half way point when he heard a shout.

"Sam!" Dean shouted from his left. He looked past the tall marble monument and out to the trees. He could see Dean running and he appeared to be chasing something. Sam did not hesitate. He ran after Dean, keeping low to the ground under the cover of the trees and the brush line.

He had very nearly caught up to Dean, but whatever Dean was chasing still appeared only as a shadowy form in the distance. It was getting away. He saw Dean pick up speed and attempt to close the gap between him and the shadow.

Without warning, Dean circled back around heading towards the graveyard. Sam changed direction to intercept and had almost closed the gap when the shadowy form changed direction once more, this time heading straight for Sam. The shadow took on substance as it drew nearer to Sam. It was some type of creature with a mouth full of sharp teeth and gray, death-kissed skin.

"Sam, look out!" Dean shouted. He saw Sam raise his weapon and steady his stance. The creature, seeming to sense danger quickly darted to the right and Dean moved to follow even as Sam's weapon tracked the movement.

Dean shot after the creature, pushing forward. He was almost there. He could smell the sickly sweet odor of death on the shadowy creature in front of him and he lifted his arm to his mouth and nose to block some of scent.

He kept his gaze focused on the creature in front of him and when it veered sharply to the right, Dean moved to follow. He noticed, too late, the pitfall in front of him and despite his best efforts Dean could not adjust his speed or momentum quickly enough to avoid it.

Dean felt his world shift, the ground beneath him disappear and his perspective pivot as he glimpsed patches of blue and green. He could hear the thud before the pain of impact registered with his brain and the air roared out his lungs in a thundering burst.

He lay there at the bottom of the earthen pit for several seconds before Sam's worried face appeared at the top. "Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked panting from both exertion and concern.

Unable to answer save a wheezing attempt at an indrawn breath, Dean waved his hand dismissively at Sam and was relieved when Sam disappeared from sight. He lay there for several moments before he could effectively draw air into his lungs. Sam reappeared again in his limited field of vision. "It's gone," Sam stated.

The sun shone between the trees casting a ring of sunshine around his brother. Dean snorted at the imagery, finding amusement in the angelic figure his brother appeared to be at the moment. Sam was sensitive, caring and a downright pain in the ass with his sense of right and wrong at times, but he wasn't an angel. Dean snorted again at the thought and his lungs and ribs protested the movement. Oh yeah, that was going to hurt in the morning.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked again, the worried expression on his face causing temporary wrinkles in his forehead. "Can you stand up?"

Dean rolled to his side and pushed up with his hand, the sudden movement causing nausea to roll over him in waves. "Son of a bitch," he whispered.

"Dean?"

"I think I hit my head," Dean remarked quietly, more to himself than to Sam. The ground beneath him vibrated in accompaniment of his brother's boots landing in front of him. Sam grasped Dean's arms under his armpits and hauled him to his feet. Sam's hands were cool on his face and he could feel the waves of concern emanating from his little brother as Sam examined his head.

"I'm okay," Dean stated wincing at the loud echo in his head that followed his words. "I'm okay now."

"You sure?" Sam asked disbelievingly.

Dean nodded and instantly regretted the movement. He swallowed down bile and attempted a smile that must have missed the mark judging by Sam's face. "Yeah," Dean reaffirmed.

"Then let's get you out of here," Sam replied. He cupped his hands and gave Dean a head nod. Dean placed his foot in Sam's hands, his own hands at the top of the hole and allowed Sam to give him a boost.

Dean pulled himself out and turned around to help Sam, but Sam was already almost out of the hole. Sam stood up, looked down into the pit and back to Dean. His face broke out in a grin that disintegrated into giggles. His brother - his caring, sensitive brother was giggling, actual giggling at his mishap.

"What?" Dean snapped with a frown.

"Oh come on," Sam replied, pausing in his laughter. "You have to admit there is a certain amount of humor in you falling into a freshly dug grave." He laid a hand on Dean's shoulder. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. It was almost the truth now. "We better get out of here before we draw attention to ourselves."

"It may be too late for that," Sam replied nodding to something over Dean's shoulder.

Dean turned around and noticed an elderly man and his dog walking towards them. "Hello!" the man called waving his cane in their direction. The black lab by his side ran towards Sam and Dean, carrying a tennis ball in his mouth, his tail whipping about. "You boys be careful," the man said picking his way closer to them. "There's an empty grave behind you. I wouldn't want you to fall in and get hurt."

Sam sniggered and Dean thumped him once on the arm. "Dude, shut up," he whispered hotly under his breath.

TBC

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AN: As always – feedback welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, not even in the fantasy world I've created in my head. Sheesh.

**Thank you: **To Jen B for the suggestions. This chapter is unbeta'd so all errors are my own. BG.

**Warning: **Minor Season 2 spoilers.

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_Dean turned around and noticed an elderly man and his dog walking towards them. "Hello!" the man called waving his cane in their direction. The black lab by his side ran towards Sam and Dean, carrying a tennis ball in his mouth, his tail whipping about. "You boys be careful," the man said picking his way closer to them. "There's an empty grave behind you. I wouldn't want you to fall in and get hurt."_

_Sam sniggered and Dean thumped him once on the arm. "Dude, shut up," he whispered hotly under his breath._

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**16:47:03 Friday, **_Waskeegan Inn, Flatt Plains, Iowa_

"You boys be careful. I wouldn't want you to fall in and get hurt," Sam teased in a sing-song voice from his position behind the laptop.

"Dude, shut up," Dean repeated. "At least I didn't break my hand getting tackled by a girl."

"She was a zombie," Sam protested mildly. "And she was fast."

"She was a girl," Dean insisted. He stared at the yellowed oil painting on the wall. It was a replica painting of dogs playing poker. He had always liked that picture. The paint on the walls and ceiling were stained yellow and a faint smell of cigarettes still lingered in the room. The entire motel was non-smoking, but obviously had not always been that way.

Dean looked over at Sam. His face was lit by blue light from the computer and his fingers tugged at his bottom lip, a sure sign he was intrigued by what he was reading. "What'd ya find?" Dean asked.

Sam did not look up, but replied, "I'm not sure they're related, but a new church was established in town about six months ago by Ezra Umholtz. It's called the Church of Chevalier de Saxe."

Dean shot Sam a quizzical look that went unnoticed by his fully engrossed brother. "Should that mean something to me?" he asked crossing his legs and lying back against the pillows. He pulled out his cell phone and his earbuds intent on losing himself to music for awhile, a small indulgence after hours of driving. He stretched carefully, the muscles in his back protesting slightly. Although, the crash landing into the empty grave probably had more to do with it than the hours he had spent in the car.

"What? Sorry," Sam apologized squirming in his chair to get more comfortable. "Chevalier de Saxe was a ghost summoned by Schrepfer in Wraxalls, _Memoirs of the Counts of Berlin, Dresden, Warsaw and Vienna. _Chevalier de Saxe was summoned because it was reputed he had hidden a large sum of money in his castle and his principal heir was attempting to locate it."

"Sounds more than a little coincidental to me," Dean replied scrolling through his music list. "We need to make a house call to Ezra."

"They conduct services at the church every Friday, Saturday and Sunday from midnight to three a.m.," Sam stated. "Another indicator they are part of the group we are looking for."

"They aren't going to let us just walk into one of their services," Dean replied. "I'm sure they keep the actual goals of their little church a carefully guarded secret. We may have to do a little recon on this one."

Sam nodded in assent and replied, "Plenty of time for more research."

"And dinner," Dean added popping in his earbuds. "Wake me at eight o'clock."

"Sure," Sam replied automatically, gazing intently at the monitor screen.

Dean shook his head and set the alarm on his cell phone. It was obvious he could not count on Mr. I'm-too-involved-in-research-to-remember-to-do-anything-but-breathe to wake him up. "Hey, Sam," Dean said.

"Hmm?' Sam replied absently.

"That Ezra Umholtz guy, is he from around here?" Dean asked.

"No," Sam replied. "Pennsylvania, actually."

"Not expecting that," Dean muttered securing his earbuds and selecting a song. _Don't Fear the Reaper, _blasted through Dean's ears and into his skull. Although a burgeoning headache beckoned the music helped keep it at bay.

"I'll let you know if I find anything significant," Sam replied not realizing Dean was already lost in his music.

Dean crossed his arms and settled back into the pillows hoping to catch a short nap. It had taken awhile to fall asleep last night and the hours spent driving had caught up to him. His mind was peacefully free of rampant thoughts as he focused on the lyrics and before long he dozed off.

Approximately two hours later he awoke with a start, instantly awake. Something wasn't right. Dean sat bolt upright and looked over at Sam, or rather, where Sam should be. The laptop was still open and booted up. The screen saver hadn't even kicked on yet so Sam had been using it less than fifteen minutes ago. He looked over towards the bathroom, but the door was open and obviously Sam was not in there.

Dean sprang out of bed and headed for the door when Sam walked in. He had a bag of chips dangling from his mouth and a soda in one hand. "Where were you?" Dean demanded.

Sam shot him a questioning look and held up the can of soda. Pocketing the room key, he snagged the bag of chips and replied, "Hungry." Sam noted Dean's expression and asked, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Dean replied. "I was wondering where you were because I'm hungry too. Gonna shower first and then let's grab some dinner." Dean turned to riffle through his duffle looking for a suitably clean shirt. He could feel Sam watching him, but he ignored it. Standing up he was face to face with Sam. "What?" Dean asked.

"And that's it?" Sam asked his face perfectly conveying his disbelief. "You looked a little, I dunno know, on edge when I walked in," Sam said choosing his words carefully.

"Your imagination must be working overtime," Dean replied dismissively. There was no way he was going to confess his brotherly instincts seemed to be in overdrive. That the very lack of Sam's presence was enough to wake him from a sound sleep. "I'll be out in five minutes."

Sam snorted and replied, "I've never seen you shower in five minutes."

"That's not true," Dean defended. "Remember the time in Albuquerque when dad came barreling in and announced we had ten minutes to pack up and leave?"

"Yes, no, I'm not sure," Sam replied frowning. "He did that a lot."

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam's waffling response, but did not comment on it. "Yeah, well this particular time you were five years old and covered in chocolate syrup. I managed to get you cleaned up, grab a shower and get us packed in nine and half minutes. That's skill."

Sam grinned, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. "That is skill," Sam replied conceding Dean's point. He opened the small bag of vending machine potato chips and popped one in his mouth. Dean reached in and grabbed a handful of chips before heading for the bathroom. "Hey!" Sam protested.

"It's payment for doubting me," Dean remarked waving a fistful of chips in Sam's general direction. He walked towards the shower relishing the thought of hot water on stiff muscles.

"Whatever," Sam huffed half-heartedly still sporting a partial grin. He flopped down in the chair in front of the computer and started powering it down.

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Despite Dean's declarations of promptness it was nearly nine o'clock before they were seated in Carlotta's Café for dinner. Dean slid into the booth closest to the door taking a seat where he could face the entrance to the café. Sam sat down on the opposite side and looked up at the waitress when she set water glasses down in front of them. "Thanks, Georgianne," Sam said spotting her name tag. He flipped his coffee mug right-side up.

"No problem, hon," Georgianne replied filling his cup. She handed the boys menus and filled Dean's now brim-side up mug. "The special today is the stir-fried chicken and steamed rice."

"I'll take that," Sam said handing Georgianne back the menu without cracking it open.

As silence fell Dean looked up over the top of his menu and flashed Georgianne a glimpse of his megawatt smile. "What would you recommend?" he asked.

"Me personally, I really like our bacon cheeseburger," Georgianne replied without hesitation. "It's great and the onion rings are beer battered."

"My kind of girl," Dean replied handing her the menu. "Sounds great." Georgianne offered Dean a smile before she walked away.

Sam doctored his coffee until he achieved the desired light brown color he craved. "Ezra Umholtz belongs to the Pow-wow Church in Pennsylvania; or rather he did until he moved out here. However, he did spend an inordinate amount of time in Louisianna according to the airline ticket purchases on his VISA statements."

"Sam, that sounds suspiciously like you've been hacking into someone's computer systems," Dean replied sarcastically.

"Me? Never," Sam insisted sardonically. "That would be illegal and unethical."

"True," Dean replied with a knowing look. "It does sound more like me."

Sam ignored Dean's comment and continued, "The Pow-wow church is a mixture of Roman Catholicism and European folk magic. It was one set of folk magic customs that influenced the United States version of Hoodoo."

"How come we've never heard of it before?" Dean asked glancing up when Georgianne placed a bowl of soup in front of him. "What's this?" he asked directing his question to Georgianne this time.

"It's soup," she explained with a small laugh. "I would think a guy your age would have eaten soup before."

"I have," Dean replied scrunching his eyebrows in confusion.

"Then, why'd you ask?" Georgianne asked placing a bowl in front of Sam as well.

"I guess the better question is why," Dean admitted raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I can't resist teasing you boys," Georgianne replied with another small laugh. "Everyone we normally get in here is old or rough around the edges. Soup comes with the meal." Georgianne acknowledged a gentleman in the corner with a wave of her hand. "Gotta go," she whispered and walked quickly over to the other table.

Sam shook his head and asked, "Where was I?"

"Pow-wow, and why we've never heard of it before," Dean supplied taking a bite of the clam chowder. "Not bad," he remarked.

"Right," Sam replied not touching his soup. "It's not widely practiced and it's primarily folk cures. It's not associated with necromancy, but since it did influence Hoodoo it's easy to see how someone who knew or studied Pow-wow could've traced the dots to Hoodoo."

"Someone like Ezra Umholtz," Dean speculated.

"Yeah maybe," Sam replied with a nod. He took a bite of the clam chowder and pushed it away. He was never really fond of the sometimes gritty clams.

"You gonna eat that?" Dean questioned pointing a spoon at the bowl of chowder.

"Have at it," Sam offered pushing the bowl closer to Dean.

Dean pulled the bowl towards him and ate a couple of bites before asking, "You did find an address for that church, didn't you?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam replied surprised Dean even had to ask.

Dean chuckled lightly. "I was just checking," he remarked. "I figure we should get there around eleven so we have time to poke around and get out before the party starts. We can sit in the car and watch who the players are as they start to arrive."

"We should look for the altar," Sam stated. "True necromancy would require a blood soaked altar, resurrection symbols, candles; it'll be pretty obvious what it is, if we find it."

"When we find it," Dean corrected with a smirk. "We'll find it."

"Find what?" Georgianne asked placing Dean's cheeseburger meal down in front of him. "Maybe I can give you directions. I've lived here my whole life." She placed Sam's plate down in front of him as well.

"I think we're good," Dean replied.

"Are you sure?" Georgianne asked. "I could point you towards Pinky the Elephant or Spook Cave."

Sam grinned. "Dean's seen plenty of pink elephants," he remarked. Dean glared across the table at Sam.

"I'll just bet he has," Georgianne replied. "You boys need anything else?"

"No, we're fine," Sam replied cutting off Dean before he could reply.

"Okay, just flag me down if you change your mind," Georgianne replied turning on her heel and walking away.

"Sam, what did you do that for?" Dean asked.

Sam smiled and replied, "I figured I'd cut you off before you could get started." He dug into is stir-fry relishing the taste of food that had actually been in the ground at some point.

"Funny," Dean replied attacking his cheeseburger with gusto. The meal continued on in silence as the brothers ate their meals.

An hour later, Sam and Dean were in the Impala headed for the Chevalier de Saxe. Sam was fidgeting in his seat and jiggling his leg. "Something bugging you, Sam?" Dean asked glancing over at Sam.

"No," Sam said sounding genuinely surprised by the question. Dean turned his attention back to the road. His little brother was apparently unaware of his nervous habit. He would give Sam the time he needed to confess. Sam always did, eventually.

Dean turned on the radio and spun the dial until he found a song he liked. He thumped out the beat and sang along to AC/DC's, _You Shook Me All Night Long, _when the music shifted to a woman singing about lovely lady humps after the chorus. "What the hell?" Dean said with a horrified look. He hastily turned off the radio and shot Sam a dirty look in response to his brother's chuckling.

"I think it's a remix," Sam supplied with another chuckle.

"It's wrong," Dean insisted with a frown. "It's just wrong."

Dean turned down the dirt road leading to the church of the Chevalier de Saxe. He pulled the Impala to a stop behind some low bushes on the dark side of the road opposite the church. Dean twisted in the seat and gazed at the dark building. "You ready?" he asked.

"Yeah, Dean, do you think this is a good idea?" Sam asked finally. "It seems as if walking into the church right before the services is a risky plan."

"Most of our plans are," Dean replied with a shrug.

"There's something I'm missing," Sam insisted with a frown. "Something that I should be seeing."

"You'll figure it out," Dean reassured him. "Let's go." Dean exited the car and waited for Sam to join him before heading out across the road over to the Chevalier de Saxe.

The church was dark and quiet save a few dozen candles burning in the entry way. The interior of the church was pitch-black and Dean flicked on his flashlight keeping it low to the ground. The air was cool and a slight unidentifiable odor hung in the air. Dean looked over at Sam who had also turned on his flashlight and was examining something on the ground. "What did you find?" Dean asked quietly.

"Not sure," Sam whispered. "Could be dried blood."

Dean bent down closer to the spots on the floor. They did have the rusty color of dried blood, but it was difficult to be sure. "Looks like it," Dean agreed in a hushed voice. "Let's follow the breadcrumbs, Gretel." Sam frowned at Dean's back, but remained silent.

The blood trail led to the back corner of the room and to a closed door. Dean tried the handle, but of course, it was locked. He silently handed Sam his flashlight and pulled out his pick set. Sam shined the light for Dean and within seconds the door opened with a hoarse creak.

Sam handed Dean back his flashlight and pointed his through the open door. Stairs led down into a cavernous basement. Whatever odor was in the air was stronger now that the door to the basement was open. Dean stepped in front of him and headed down the stairs. Sam followed closely behind closing the door behind him.

The stairway opened into a large boiler room. There was no sign of anything unusual, but the faint blood trail continued towards the left. Sam and Dean shined their lights around the room looking for any signs of an altar, symbols or other evidence of necromancy ceremonies. The room contained stacked cardboard boxes, antique, dusty glassware and cleaning supplies, but nothing that would indicate nefarious rituals took place in the church.

Dean tapped Sam on the arm and jerked his head to the left signaling his desire to continue following the blood trail. He headed down the hall with Sam walking slightly behind him and to his right. Dean glanced around as they continued further into the basement watching for areas to hide should they be discovered. He paused when the blood trail ended at another locked door.

Repeating his actions from earlier, Dean picked the lock and opened the door. The door opened soundlessly, but as the air from inside the room rushed out Dean choked back a gag. The air down here was permeated with the undeniable stench of decay.

Sam stepped into the room behind Dean and shined his flashlight into the dark corners of the room until he found the source of the odor. "God, Dean," he whispered.

The body on the black cloth covered table in the corner was female. Long, blonde hair fell in waves from her head over the edge of the table. The body did not appear to be clothed, but was instead covered in a white sheet that was stained with seeping body fluids and blood.

Her skin was a pale shade of green and her face and abdomen were swollen and puffy. The exposed skin on her arms was cracked and oozing fluid. The color of her nearly gelatinous, open eyes was difficult to determine in the dim light.

Dean pulled back the sheet and examined the body. Open wounds on her chest and abdomen gave the appearance of an animal attack. Tears and marks on her skin suspiciously similar to teeth tracks or bites littered her upper torso. The injuries were consistent with a sharp-toothed animal latching on to skin and ripping flesh loose.

"She's only been dead for a few days," Dean stated finally. He stepped closer and shined his light around the table and the body. Light glinted off an object on the floor and Dean stooped to examine it. He picked up a small metal object connected to a delicate chain. Sam stood over his shoulder and added his light to Dean's. The object in question was a delicately carved amulet with a large green stone.

Sam snagged the amulet from Dean's hand and inspected it carefully. The engravings looked familiar to him and Sam fingered the grooves hoping it would spark a memory. He looked up when Dean tapped him on the shoulder and heard the faint sound of footfalls on the floor above them. Sam pocketed the amulet and locked the door from the inside before closing it gently behind him as he followed Dean back into the passageway.

As they neared the stairway Dean stopped abruptly in front of him and Sam had to backpedal quickly to avoid running into him. Dean held up his hand and motioned to his right. Sam ducked into the low crawlspace followed closely by Dean. The brothers hunched in the dark, dusty space waiting.

The door to the basement opened with a distinctive creaking that had both brothers craning their heads upwards towards the doorway. Multiple footsteps echoed around the concrete room. Hushed whispers accompanied the footsteps, swelling and shifting in intensity as people descended into the basement.

"…Ezra's control over the spirit of Thomas Harrigan will be harnessed tonight with the help of Ezra's latest success," one voice whispered.

"So we hope," another voice replied sounding less optimistic. "It doesn't seem as if…"

The voiced faded and Dean watched as the last of the sandal clad feet passed by before he tugged at Sam's jacket. He led the way out of the crawlspace and silently up the stairs to the creaking door. As luck would have it, the door was slightly ajar and Dean eased it open cringing at the metallic groaning of the hinges.

"This way," Dean whispered pulling Sam towards the far side of the dark room. He had spotted the side door on the first trip through and he felt it was a safer, if somewhat slower, escape route than the well lit entry.

This door too was locked, but the deadbolt slid with ease and both brothers slipped through the opening. Dean led the way to the cover of the shrubbery on the east side of the church. He and Sam crouched in the shadows waiting as several cars slowed on the dirt road and turned into the parking lot, gravel crunching under their tires.

They could not see the entrance to the church from this angle and only minutes later, Dean tugged again on Sam's jacket in a silent signal to leave. Sam trailed slightly behind Dean as he ran to the waiting car.

The Impala's doors creaked a greeting as the Winchester brothers slid into the front seat. Simultaneous door slams preceded the roar of the engine as Dean started the Impala and pulled out onto the dark road. After flipping a u-turn, Dean flicked on the headlights and headed back to Flatt Plains.

"The engravings on this amulet look familiar," Sam stated pulling the amulet out of his jacket pocket. "I think I saw markings like this while I was researching this afternoon."

Dean spared him a quick glance and replied, "Do you remember where?"

"No, that's the problem," Sam replied. "I'm hoping I can find it again when we get back to the inn."

"You do need to sleep sometime," Dean lectured gently. He turned on the radio and tapped his silver ring lightly on the steering wheel in time to the beat.

"I will," Sam assured him. He placed the amulet back in his pocket and hunkered down in the seat pulling his jacket tighter around him. Dean, noticing Sam's actions turned up the heater and lowered the volume on the radio. If he played his cards right, Sam would fall asleep on the way back to town and get some much needed rest despite himself.

Dean smiled to himself when Sam's light snores reached his ears. He looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye and noticed the awkward angle in which Sam's neck was positioned. That would explain the snoring. Dean mentally congratulated himself on a mission accomplished before turning his attention back to the road and settling in for the drive back to town.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean urged pulling on Sam's shoulders. "We're here."

Sam roused and noticed they were back at the inn. "We're back," he remarked.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Time to head in and hit the sack," Dean replied. He stepped back and out of the way so Sam could exit the car. Sam pulled himself out of the Impala and staggered towards their room. Dean followed closely behind watching bemusedly as a sleepy Sam walked like a drunken sailor on a rolling ship.

By the time Dean had the door open Sam was practically sleeping on his feet propped against the side of the inn. He steered a compliant Sam into the room and onto the far bed. As Dean began to remove Sam's jacket, Sam struggled against him. "I don't wanna wrestle," Sam mumbled half asleep.

"Then wake up, kiddo," Dean replied with a grunt when Sam's elbow caught him in the stomach. Dean watched Sam for a minute while he sleepily shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and laid back on the bed with a flop. When Sam made no effort to get under the blankets, Dean shook his head and covered him with a blanket.

Crossing the room, Dean kicked off his own shoes and stripped down to his boxers before lying down on the bed. Dean glanced at his watch. One-thirty a.m. was earlier than they often made it back to a motel, able to crash in a bed and in one piece. He thought about the woman in the basement and wondered if the necromancy members had killed her themselves or if they were opportunistic scavengers of the recently dead. With those pleasant thoughts rolling about in his brain Dean dropped off to sleep.

TBC

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AN: We're almost back to the present! Feedback welcome and appreciated!

For the record I actually like, "You Humped Me All Night Long," the remix of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long," and Fergie's, "My Humps."

(c:


	4. Chapter 4

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I do own a two-door, green, hatch-back Ford Focus that's a zippy, fun little commuter car. However, I'm sadly lacking a black '67 Chevy Impala with optional Sam and Dean action figures.

**Thank You: **ToWysawyg for her suggestion, catching my errors and taking much of the angst of posting a story away. Couldn't do it without you!

**A Special Thank You: **To everyone who has been reading. To the anonymous reviewers that I couldn't respond to individually – thanks! This is THE chapter some of you have been so patiently waiting for. (c:

**An Extra Special Thank You: **To everyone who sent postcards and/or converted their friends to SPN fans – I hope we made a difference. According to tvguide(dot)com, Supernatural is in the official CW fall line-up!

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_Crossing the room, Dean kicked off his own shoes and stripped down to his boxers before lying down on the bed. Dean glanced at his watch. One-thirty a.m. was earlier than they often made it back to a motel, able to crash in a bed and in one piece. He thought about the woman in the basement and wondered if the necromancy members had killed her themselves or if they were opportunistic scavengers of the recently dead. With those pleasant thoughts rolling about in his brain Dean dropped off to sleep._

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**09:52:37 Saturday, **_Waskeegan Inn_

Dean awoke slowly, turning away from the shaft of sunlight that found its way through the heavy motel drapes and into his eyes. He heard the shower running and decided the morning could wait for a few minutes after all. Dean flipped onto his stomach and allowed himself the luxury of sleeping for awhile longer.

The crinkle of a paper bag landing near his head brought Dean back to awareness for the second time this morning. He opened his eyes to the sight of Sam sitting on the opposite bed, two cups of coffee in his hands. Dean sat up in bed and grabbed the cup of coffee Sam held out for him. "What's in the bag?" he asked in a husky, morning voice.

"Doughnuts," Sam replied taking a sip of coffee. "Breakfast of champions."

A wide smile spread across Dean's face. "Crullers?"

"Yep," Sam replied with a matching smile.

"God bless small town America," Dean sighed snaking a cruller out of the bag and taking a bite.

Sam puffed and said, "We should head to the local library and search through the public records. I know the engraving is important and I think we need to find out who Thomas Harrigan was."

"Not sure that it matters, Sam," Dean replied. "If those people are being influenced by his spirit, or somehow using his spirit it has to be stopped."

"Dean, we can't salt and burn a body on mere suspicion. It may not even be necessary," Sam argued. "We should try to figure this out first."

"Sam, we can't let these people continue to steal bodies, possibly channel or summon spirits, maybe even kill," Dean insisted. "They're dangerous and one of them at least is attempting to control spirits."

"That doesn't mean we should salt and burn this guy without taking the time to verify a few facts," Sam contradicted.

"We've got all day," Dean stated. "But tonight, we do this thing."

"Yeah okay," Sam conceded standing up. He picked up his laptop and started to pack up to leave for the library.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the small motel room. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi," Dean muttered under his breath stopping when the thunder cracked. "The lightning was three miles away, Sammy," he announced, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Shut up," Sam said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. He clearly remembered being afraid of a storm when he was about five or six and Dean teaching him how to gauge how far away the lightning really was.

Rain hit the motel roof followed by the pitter-pattering of hail. _Great, _Dean thought. _We'll probably be digging up a grave in the rain again. _He grabbed clean clothes out of the duffel, took another swig of coffee and high-tailed it to the bathroom to get dressed. He was not really in any great rush to start researching, but he knew Sam would be and he would be verbally repetitive in his demands for Dean to hurry and get ready.

**17:15:23 Saturday, **_Agnes Lynne Memorial Library_

Sam pulled another thick tome from the shelf and added it to his ever growing pile on a small corner table in the local library. His nose tickled when the dust from the heavy book drifted upwards. Sam rubbed his hand several times along his nose trying to stop the inevitable, but the loud sneeze echoed off the walls in the nearly empty library.

"You're supposed to be quiet in the library," Dean stage whispered emerging from behind a shelf of hard worn reference books.

Sam afforded Dean a hard glare and turned back to the recently acquired book. "Did you have any luck?" he asked Dean without looking up.

"As a matter of fact, yeah," Dean replied, turning the chair around to sit on it backwards. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair and faced Sam.

Sam could not help the look of surprise that appeared on his face. He had been concerned neither of them were going to get anywhere. "What'd you find?" he asked.

Dean pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper out of his pant's pocket and attempted to smooth it out on the table. "Thomas Harrigan died August 15th, 1910. He ran the only pub in town back then and he appeared to be well-liked by the locals. There, ah, was a rumor hinted at in another article that suggested after the death of his wife he was fascinated by the after life. He conducted séances, hired psychics and may have dabbled in, 'dubious and possibly sacrilegious ceremonies in his attempts to contact the dead.'"

"Maybe Ezra is trying to control or contact Thomas because he thinks Thomas was successful," Sam speculated.

"I found something else," Dean said taking another crumpled paper out of his pocket. This paper did not contain the trademark Dean scrawl, but rather a picture of a young woman. Dean tapped the paper with his finger and explained, "Rebecca Montegna, wife of Aaron Montegna has been missing for five days now. Look familiar?" Dean turned the paper towards Sam.

Sam examined the picture and although the woman did appear vaguely familiar, he couldn't place her. "No," Sam replied hesitantly.

"She's the woman in the basement," Dean stated, lowering his voice even more.

Sam squinted at the picture. "You're sure?" he asked still not able to make the connection for certain. She did resemble the woman, but he was not positive they were one and the same.

"I'm sure," Dean replied. He folded both sheets of paper and put them back in his pocket. "The best part is she is the great, great granddaughter of Thomas Harrigan."

Sam's eyes widened at that pronouncement. "That's going to make Thomas very unhappy," he replied.

"To put it mildly," Dean said. "No luck with the amulet?"

"None," Sam replied releasing a frustrated sigh. "But, I think I do have a working theory on what we saw in the cemetery."

Dean raised his eyebrows and waved his hands in a 'please continue' motion. "Well?" he asked.

"Ghouls or ghoul-like zombies," Sam replied.

"Ghouls are fiction, Sam," Dean contradicted.

"Up until a little over a year ago, we said the same thing about vampires," Sam argued. "According to the lore, ghouls are original monsters or demons, but other legends have them more closely related to zombies in that they were once human. By all accounts they are short, blue-gray in color, strong and very fast. It is unusual to see one out in the daytime, as they are slower and more vulnerable during the day."

"That was slower?" Dean asked incredulously. "That thing was incredibly fast."

Sam nodded in agreement and continued, "They usually hunt in packs because they are cowardly in demeanor. However, they are vicious and insatiably hungry for human flesh."

"That's comforting," Dean replied. "How do we kill it?"

"Electrocution might work," Sam answered hesitantly. He knew he had to give Dean all the options; it was the only way to ensure they had the best chance of success, but he was going to do his best to steer Dean away from electrocution. Memories of Dean lying in the hospital, pale and weak flooded Sam's brain before he forced himself back to the subject at hand. "But, the most effective method is decapitation."

"Either way, we have to get up close and personal with it," Dean replied. "Well, not quite as much with the Taser, but still pretty close."

"Decapitation is the preferred method," Sam stated firmly. He was bound and determined to win this round. "I think we should stick with that."

If Dean picked up on Sam's odd insistence on using decapitation, a far messier technique than electrocution, he did not acknowledge it other than one fleeting moment of recognition in his eyes. "Okay, we'll stick with beheading," Dean conceded. "What do you say we get out of here for awhile and grab some fresh air and maybe a bite to eat?"

"You go," Sam replied. "I'm going to search for a little longer."

"Sammy longer or Dean longer?" Dean asked with a smirk.

Sam looked up from the book, a confused look on his face. "What do you mean by that?" Sam asked.

"When you are busy searching for answers, your idea of a little longer tends to be a little longer than my idea of a little longer," Dean quipped, his amusement at baiting Sam showing through.

"It'll be longer than five minutes if that's what you're driving at," Sam snapped snarkily.

"S'what I thought," Dean replied standing up. "I'll be back in about an hour with some take out. Will that be enough time?"

"Whether I've found the answer yet or not," Sam agreed with a nod.

"Good," Dean stated. "We do need to eat and catch a few minutes of sleep before staying up all night digging up bodies."

Sam dismissed Dean with a shooing wave of his hand. As Dean walked away Sam could have sworn he heard him humming, _Creeping Death. _Sam shook his head and began his search for information on the amulet engravings once more.

**18:42:39 Saturday, **_Carlotta's Café_

"Where's that brother of yours?" Georgianne asked, a smile on her face and a twinkle in her brown eyes.

"Still at the library, school paper," Dean replied, the lie easily tripping off his tongue. "I'd like to place an order to go."

"Sure thing," Georgianne replied. "Why don't you have a cup of coffee at the counter while I box it up? Do you know what you want?"

"Two specials will be fine," Dean replied. "And I think I will take you up on your offer." He ambled over to the counter and took a seat on a red vinyl covered stool. The elderly man already seated at the counter gave Dean an appraising look then turned back to his newspaper.

Georgianne filled Dean's mug and set down a slice of apple pie in front of him. When he shot her a questioning look she said, "Just 'cause I like you."

"What's not to like?" Dean replied with a lop-sided grin. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Georgianne replied heading for another customer. "Those orders will be up in a few."

Dean took a leisurely bite of his pie. _Ah man, this is good, _he thought. Dean twisted his head to read the headline on the paper the elderly man to his right was reading. _**City Council to Approve Land Usage Permit**_ blasted out from the front page. Dean tried to read the article, but the man folded up his paper and, in a surprise gesture, handed it to Dean.

"I'm finished with it, kiddo," the man stated, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "You can have it."

"Thanks, Mr…?" Dean hinted taking the offered paper.

"LaBelle," the man replied, holding out his hand. "Gary LaBelle."

"Dean," Dean supplied, shaking Gary's hand. "Thanks again."

"You're welcome, son," Gary replied and with a small degree of difficulty hefted himself off the stool and toddled out the door.

Dean watched Gary leave and then turned his attention back to the paper. _Flatt Plains City Council voted 10-1 in favor of granting a church land use permit to Ezra Umholtz, leader of the Church of Chevalier de Saxe. The Chevalier petitioned for land rights to the wooded property adjacent to the Community Cemetery thirteen months ago according to court records. The first two petitions were denied by City Council and, while no explanation has been released as to their sudden decision change regarding the land use, it is suspected whatever red tape was previously holding up the permit has been cleared. "The City Council has re-evaluated our claim and made a proper decision," Ezra Umhotz was…_

"Dean!" Georgianne said loudly, grabbing the top of the newspaper and pulling it down.

"What? Sorry, were you talking to me?" Dean asked, his face the picture of innocence.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Georigianne stated with a small laugh. "I didn't realize small town news was so riveting. Your food is ready to go."

"Great," Dean replied, folding up the paper and tucking it under his arm. He tossed twenty-five dollars down on the counter. "Will that cover it?"

Georgianne picked up the twenty and handed the five back to Dean. "Twenty more than covers it as well as a nice fifteen percent well-deserved tip."

Dean wadded the five and stuffed it in his pocket. "Catch ya later," he said flashing a grin.

"Later," Georgianne replied, watching him leave before turning her attention back to her other customers.

**20:12:34 Saturday, **_2 blocks south of the Waskeegan Inn_

"Whatever you picked up, it smells really good," Sam commented. The rain pelted the Impala's windshield relentlessly. The beat of the windshield wipers kept almost perfect rhythm with the song currently playing on the radio. Sam did not recognize the song, but it was an old soft, rock ballad proving Dean was not listening to the radio at all. "What're you thinking about?" he asked crinkling his brow.

"This case, it's all over the place," Dean replied, pulling into the motel parking lot. "Necromancers, Pow-wow magic, possible zombies or ghouls," Dean snorted at the last item he ticked off. "The fight over the land use rights, the amulet and disappearing bodies. It's all interconnected somehow, but what are we going to do about it? We can hunt the ghouls, salt and burn the body of the spirit that is inspiring or teaching the necromancers, but in the end what are we going to do about the necromancers?"

"We can't kill them," Sam stated definitively. "They may be practicing a ceremony regarded as evil as far back as Biblical times and ancient Rome and Greece, but they are still just people."

"That's my point, Sam," Dean said, grabbing the to-go order. "This doesn't seem like anything we can solve and it's starting to annoy the hell out of me."

"Is that why you've been so jumpy lately?" Sam asked turning around to snag the laptop from the back seat.

Dean narrowed his eyes and replied, "I haven't been jumpy." He took note of the look of disbelief on Sam's face and added, "Okay, I may have been a little…proactively cautious…but not jumpy."

"Whatever Dean, it's all semantics," Sam replied. Before Dean could offer a response, Sam was out of the car and walking briskly to the motel room avoiding the largest puddles along the way.

By the time Dean joined Sam in the room; Sam had already booted up the computer and appeared to be fully engrossed in research – again. "Thought we were going to take a break for awhile, have some dinner?" Dean asked. He knew Sam was like a dog with a bone when he was searching for answers, but a break was sometimes exactly what Sam needed to piece together the tidbits of information he already had and see the whole picture.

"We are," Sam replied. "I'm checking the browser history. I'm hoping I stumbled on the answer to the engravings earlier and I can simply backtrack my way to the site."

Dean shook his head. He knew Sam better than anyone and he knew Sam wasn't going to stop until he found the answers he was looking for. Dean resigned himself to a long night of research rather than a relaxing time at the bar or even crashing in front of the television for a couple of hours. If Sam was going to be working, he was not going to slack off. Then again, he could possibly justify the time at the bar as an opportunity to make some money, but he could not bring himself to feel right about leaving Sam here while he went to the bar.

Dean pulled the food out of the bag and opened one of the Styrofoam boxes. He took a huge whiff of the home-cooked meal inside. It was a simple meal of mashed potatoes, meatloaf and corn, but it was all smothered in brown gravy. "That's the stuff," Dean sighed. He held out the other box for Sam. "Come on, dig in," he said.

"In a minute," Sam replied with a head jerk indicating Dean should set the box down.

"Sam, you have a little over two hours yet before we should leave for the cemetery. Take a minute now," Dean insisted.

Sam looked up from the computer and saw Dean was still holding the box up for him. He snagged the to-go container, opened it up and was hit with the smell of greasy food. Sam peered into the container only to find meat and potatoes absolutely smothered in brown gravy that was congealing with a fine layer of grease sitting on the top. He noticed Dean seemed to be enjoying his food, but he could not muster up enthusiasm for the fatty meal. He took a few, conspicuous bites to appease his brother and then set it back down in favor of further research. So far, the Internet history had proven to be less than helpful.

Deciding Sam was a lost cause, Dean grabbed the remote to the television and settled in on his bed with the container of food balanced in one hand. He flipped through the stations in rapid succession several times before landing on an old, black and white movie. It only took him a minute to recognize the flick as _The Old Dark House. _He loved this movie. The witty conversations and the insane Saul more than made up for the thin plot line. When Sam sighed for the third time, Dean looked over and asked, "Sam, why don't you give it a rest and watch the show for awhile?"

"I'm just a little frustrated," Sam replied. "There has to be an answer here."

"You'll find it," Dean reassured. "It won't kill you to take a break though."

"I suppose you're right," Sam conceded, grabbing his now cold dinner and sitting down on his bed.

"Could you repeat that?" Dean asked. He closed his container and aimed for the trash can near the door. The container hit the rim and bounced in on the first shot.

"Nah, I don't think your ego needs any stoking," Sam replied, setting the still mostly full container on the side table. He leaned back and sank deeply into the pillows. He relaxed a bit as the movie droned on accompanied by Dean, who would chuckle every once in awhile at some snippet of absurd dialogue. Before he realized it was happening, Sam's eyes grew heavy and he dozed off.

Dean knew the moment Sam fell asleep. The constant fidgeting from an anxious Sam stopped and he could hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of sleep coming from the opposite bed. Dean figured he could give Sam an hour before they headed to the cemetery. Sam would not be happy he had fallen asleep, but Dean could feign ignorance and Sam would let him off the hook. Dean picked up Sam's to-go container and finished the cold meatloaf. They would be digging up a grave tonight; the extra energy source would come in handy.

The closing credits were rolling on the small television screen when Sam jumped out of bed motivated by a sudden epiphany. He rushed over to the chair he had flung his jacket over a couple hours ago. "What're you looking for?" Dean asked.

Sam frantically searched the pockets of his jacket. "A business card," he replied succinctly.

"You had business cards made up?" Dean asked teasingly. He strode over to the table to see what Sam was doing.

"Of course not," Sam replied somewhat distractedly. He pulled the business card out of his inside pocket and fished out his cell phone as well. Sam retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom and arranged the amulet on the white cloth. Snapping a picture, Sam started moving through his cell phone menu to send the picture as an attachment.

"Who are you sending that picture to?" Dean asked genuinely interested now. He read the business card Sam flipped around for his to see. "Who's Professor Garner and when did you meet him? It says here he's in Indiana."

"He works at the university and I met him at the hotel in Peru," Sam explained. "He's a professor of anthropology. It's possible he's seen markings like this before."

"It's worth a shot," Dean agreed.

"Done," Sam announced. "What time is it?"

"Almost one o'clock," Dean replied picking up his keys. "We should get a move on."

"Let's go," Sam stated, grabbing the amulet and falling into line behind Dean as he headed to the car. There was one small blessing, it wasn't raining any more.

**02:34:59 Sunday, **_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

Sam stood at the top of the grave as shovels full of mud landed near his feet. He had just finished his third round of digging and now Dean was down there. Sam crouched near the marble headstone and shone his light over the unique engraving. It seemed similar to the engraving on the amulet and he considered the possibility they were related somehow.

"Yahtzee!" Dean's muffled shout came from the bottom of the muddy pit. Sam shone his flashlight low to the ground, but out towards the trees checking for the shadowy creature they had seen here when they pulled into town. He could see nothing out of the ordinary and Sam heard Dean cough several times. He peered over the edge of the grave at Dean as a gust of stale air assaulted his senses. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of death lingering in the air.

"Can you get out of there, or do you need some help?" Sam asked.

"I got it," Dean assured him, balancing precariously along the coffin's edge. He handed Sam his shovel.

"If you're sure, I'm going back to the car for the amulet. I think it is tied to Harrigan and I want to compare the engraving on the amulet with the grave marker," Sam explained.

"Go," Dean said waving his arm at Sam. "I got it."

Sam stood up and headed for the Impala. He was only half way back to the car when the rain started again. It was a heavy rain that soaked through his too long hair in mere seconds and caused water to run down the collar of his jacket. Sam picked up the pace and ducked into the passenger seat of the Impala.

He opened the glove box and pulled out the delicate amulet. The engravings certainly seemed similar and he was certain now he had seen them somewhere else as well. The realization that not only was Dean out there handling a salt and burn by himself, but also that he was dripping water all over the interior of the Impala catapulted Sam out of the car.

Sam walked back towards the grave site amulet in hand, trying to rack his brain for the connection between the grave marker and the amulet that seemed to evade his best efforts. He heard something running up behind him moments before he was knocked to the ground.

Teeth sank into his shoulder and he tried desperately to pry the creature off his chest. Claws ripped through his jeans and jacket and into tender flesh. Distantly he heard the sound of his brother calling his name. "Aaaagh!" Sam shouted in pain. He bent his knees up towards his chest and managed to plant his feet on the creature's belly. Thrusting his long legs outwards he pushed against the creature and was able to launch it into the air.

Pain lanced through his shoulder as a hunk of flesh was ripped from his chest as the ghoulish creature was hurled backwards. Before Sam could react, it was back again. The creature was in Sam's face, the bloody flesh from his chest still dangled from its teeth. Thin blonde hair clung to its head and it narrowed its eyes at Sam, growling deep in its throat. "Rebecca?" Sam moaned as recognition hit him.

The creature cocked its head to the side. It was impossible to decide if it was in possible understanding of the question or confusion by it, but it hardly seemed to matter as the next moment its claws were again ripping into Sam with renewed intensity.

Searing pain shot through his stomach, legs and thighs as claws and teeth attacked. He could smell the coppery scent of blood and he felt his strength waning. Sam fought weakly against the creature and did not immediately register Dean's presence when he roared and rushed at the creature.

Sam became vaguely aware of Dean's arrival and his fear lessened. True to his belief the pressure on his chest was relieved only moments later when the creature fell to the side and onto the ground. Dean's anxious face swam in front of him and he could tell Dean was desperately trying to say something to him, but Sam couldn't hear him. Sam's eyes rolled to the back of his head and then there was darkness.

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AN: We're back! For those of you who were waiting for the Hurt!Sam/Protective!Dean, it has officially arrived. It is a good thing I wrote this part (Hurt!Sam) right after I wrote the same scene from Dean's POV in chapter 1. I don't think I would have had the heart to hurt Sammy after AHBL1.

I realized today that perhaps because I'm a wee bit (hey, I'll choose the qualifiers here) older than those boys I must have a secret mothering impulse going on. In all of my stories they get plenty of food and at least some sleep. I must subconsciously worry they don't get enough of either on the show. BG.

Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural is owned by CW and Kripke. I'm just playing in their sandbox for awhile.

**Thank you: **To Wysawyg for the awesome beta'ing! This chapter would still be sitting in a dusty computer file if not for you. (c: And to Jen B for being such a pusher!

**A Special Thank You: **To everyone who has been reading and an extra thank you to those you have reviewed. To the anonymous reviewers I cannot reply to, please accept this Thank You!

**A Special Thank You: **To my husband and my son who agreed to hang out in the coffee shop working on our PC's so I could write. You guys are the best.

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_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

"Sammy!" Dean shouted dropping the kerosene and running towards Sam at top speed. The ghoulish creature was on top of his little brother and all he could see was Sam trying desperately to pry the creature off his chest. Time seemed to slow down for Dean and all the minute details sharpened in intensity as he raced to get to Sam.

"Aaaagh!" Sam shouted. He bent his knees up towards his chest and managed to plant his feet on the creature's belly. Thrusting his long legs outwards he pushed against the creature and was able to launch it into the air. Dean felt a momentary rush of relief until the creature was on Sam again before he had time to react.

The creature paused for a moment before its claws were again ripping into Sam with renewed intensity. Sam was still weakly fighting the ghoulish creature when Dean finally made it to his brother. With a fierce roar he rushed at the creature pulling his favorite long knife out of his inside jacket pocket.

In one swift movement, Dean swung the knife at the creature and a moment later it was lying on the ground beside Sam, its head no longer connected to its body. Dean stood there heaving in great lungfuls of air, watching to be certain the creature did not somehow reanimate and go after Sam again. Only moments later, Dean was kneeling down in front of Sam gripping his shoulders tightly. "Sam! Sammy!" Dean shouted. "Stay awake okay, you're going to be okay. Just stay awake."

Dean's face paled and his stomach dropped as Sam's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out. "Sammy!" Dean shouted once more, hoping to rouse his little brother. Nothing. Sam was out cold.

Dean ran his hands over his brother's body taking inventory of the damage. He ripped open what was left of Sam's shirt and sat back on his heels in shock. There was a hunk of flesh missing from Sam's chest near his collar bone. Rain mixed with blood on Sam's abdomen and chest making it difficult to determine how deep the lacerations were, if they extended all the way to the soft tissues and organs concealed under only a thin layer of skin, fat and muscle. It was apparent after a cursory examination that Sam's injuries were beyond Dean's ability to handle alone. They were going to need a hospital.

Dean pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. He dialed for an ambulance leaving bloody fingerprints on the illuminated nine, one and talk keys. Dean continued his assessment of Sam even as a calm female voice chirped through his phone. _"Emergency services. Nature of your emergency?" _

"My brother was attacked by some kind of wild dog or something," Dean spoke quickly and sharply over the rain. "We're at the cemetery."

"_Sir, I'm dispatching emergency services now," the smooth voice continued. "Is your brother conscious?"_

"No," Dean replied tucking his phone into the crook of his neck. He wadded up the remnants of Sam's shirt and applied direct pressure to the wound on his shoulder. "He's losing a lot of blood. Hurry up with that ambulance!" Dean demanded for once in his life waiting desperately for the sound of sirens in the distance. In the form of one small blessing the rain started to lessen and showed signs of stopping.

"_Sir, emergency services is on the way to you now," the all too calm voice on the phone responded._

"Just hurry," Dean snapped into the phone. He tossed the still open phone into the wet grass and continued to put pressure on Sam's shoulder with one hand. His other hand wiped at the bloody lacerations on Sam's stomach. He tried to see how serious the cuts were, how deep they ran, but the darkness conspired against him.

Dean reached for his forgotten flashlight shining dimly, buried deeply in the thick grass. Fingers slick with blood slipped off the metal Maglite causing it to roll further away from Dean. "Shit, shit, shit," he cursed softly. He did not want to release the pressure he was exerting on Sam's chest, but he needed to see how serious the injuries to Sam were.

Slipper clad feet appeared next to the Maglite and Dean looked up into the craggy face of the elderly caretaker. "Let's take care of that brother of yours," he said handing the light to Dean.

"I already called the ambulance, they should be here any minute now," Dean replied, turning his attention back to Sam. Blood was soaking through Sam's shirt, Sam's blood.

"In that case, we need to hurry," the caretaker replied. He picked Dean's cell phone out of the grass, closed it and put it in his coat pocket. The old man hunkered down on creaking joints and spoke to his black lab. "Bojangles, you run ahead and hide those shovels." The lab tilted his head as if he was listening and then took off towards the open grave at a trot.

"We need to move Sam now," the old man said. "The ambulance will be here any moment and we can't let them take your brother."

The realization that the strange caretaker seemed to know Sam was his brother dawned on Dean, but that didn't mean he was entrusting Sam's life to the creepy little man. "You're not taking Sam anywhere. Sam needs a hospital. This, this is more than I can fix," Dean admitted brokenly.

"We can help Sam," the blue-eyed, silver-haired man insisted. "But we can't let them take your brother. There is more here to fix than what you can see."

The caretaker moved towards Sam. Dean leaned forward covering Sam with his body, sheltering him from the caretaker's bony hands as they reached for Sam. "Look, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you aren't touching my brother. He's going to the hospital," Dean snapped.

"Dean, be reasonable," the caretaker replied. "You need to think this through carefully. Sam's life depends on it."

"I take care of Sam. I don't need you telling me how to do it," Dean stated in a carefully measured tone. He ran the Maglite over Sam trying to ascertain the extent of the damage. "I don't know how you know who Sam and I are, but you're still a crazy old man who lives in a graveyard. I'm not placing Sam's life in your hands."

"You'll be killing him if you don't," the old man replied softly, laying a cold hand on Dean's shoulder.

The touch on Dean's shoulder had a calming effect. A cool stream ran through his blood from the man's gentle pressure on his shoulder to his stomach. Dean considered the old man's words and actions. He seemed genuinely concerned for Sam and Dean wavered on the brink of indecision when the distant sound of sirens cut through the silence in the graveyard.

As the ambulance pulled to a stop, Dean was forced from his reverie and noticed the caretaker had somehow managed to disappear. "Son, you'll need to move over and give us some room," the EMT said shepherding Dean to the side.

Dean watched as the EMT's quickly set up lights, assessed Sam's condition and began to administer aid to Sam. Dean could not tear his gaze from Sam's too pale face, but he managed to somehow answer the questions being shot in his direction.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the paramedics moved Sam to a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. "We're taking him to the county hospital in Flatt Plains," the paramedic stated. "I'd let you ride with us, but we'll need the room. Follow us."

Dean moved mechanically towards the Impala and slipped inside. He sat there for a minute, his chest heaving, his hands shaking, watching as the ambulance tail lights disappeared down the dirt road. Gunning the engine, Dean pushed the accelerator and headed back to town.

Standing in the shadows of the tall elm trees a shadowy figure and a black hound watched the Impala disappear from sight. He could only wait now and hope the boy figured it out before it was too late to save the other. He patted the dog next to him, turned and hobbled deeper into the graveyard.

_Allamakee County Hospital_

Dean burst through the door to the emergency room and rushed to the reception desk. "I'm here for Sam Elden," Dean announced briskly. "He was attacked by a dog."

"Sir, have a seat and I'll bring out paperwork to you," the pink jacketed woman at the desk replied.

"I just want to know how Sam is," Dean insisted, leaning on the desk. "He was only brought in here a few minutes ago."

"Look, Mr…?" she began, gathering up papers and snapping them onto a clipboard. The simple sound reverberated in the nearly empty waiting room.

"Dean," he interrupted. "Tell me where my brother is."

"Dean, he is here and the doctors are with him now. They are examining him and trying to diagnose his condition right now. You don't want to delay care for your brother by interrupting them," she replied, coming around the corner of the desk. She laid a hand on his arm and steered him towards one of the padded arm chairs in the waiting area. "My name is Ricky and I'll go check with one of the nurses in a few minutes. Right now, I need you to fill out the paperwork for your brother."

"Yeah, okay," Dean capitulated, taking a seat in the chair. He accepted the clipboard and pen from Ricky and started to fill out the personal information for Samuel Elden.

………………………………………………………………………

Lights. The lights were bright. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to fall back to sleep. He was not sure where he was, but he did not like it here. Loud. The air around him exploded in noise and he groaned in protest. Pain. There was a pain in his chest and he suddenly felt very cold. He shivered against the coldness seeping into his body, chasing away some of the numbness that had been keeping him blissfully unaware of how much pain he was truly in.

Voices. He could hear voices now. Voices shattered the silence, the melodic sounds of many voices rising and falling in the emptiness surrounding him. They sang to him, beckoned to him, drawing him out of the dark recesses of his mind and back into the light.

Pain. There was pain again, sharp and insistent. It grew in intensity until it blocked out the chanting of the voices, until the light grew white hot bright, until he fell back into the darkness and the world grew silent once more.

……………………………………………………………………..

Dean was ready to start climbing the walls. There had been no word on Sam in nearly an hour. Ricky had given Dean a status report during the first thirty minutes of his arrival. She reported that while Sam's condition was serious it was deemed fair. They had given him a blood transfusion and stabilized his heart rhythm before taking him to surgery. Ricky was not wearing a pinched or worried look upon her face which proved to Dean she was not lying to make calm him down.

This event was at the top of the list of fears that Dean refused to acknowledge, even privately. That something would happen to Sam and he would be powerless to stop it, or to fix it. There was nothing he could do to help Sam right now and he hated the loss of control over Sam's well-being that represented.

He stood up and paced the small waiting area yet again. He was the only person waiting aside from a very old woman whose oxygen machine's steady 'psssst' was going to drive Dean over the edge. He was convinced the tank must be possessed by a demon or angry spirit to be that damn objectionable.

"Dean," Ricky called softly. "Hey, why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get a sandwich and a cup of coffee or something? I'll page the cafeteria if I have news."

"I'm not leaving here until I can see Sam," Dean stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But, I should give you my cell phone number just in case I have to...well, if I'm…" Dean struggled for words that would not offend Ricky.

"Temporarily indisposed?" Ricky suggested with a small smile.

"Yeah that," Dean agreed readily. He reached for a pen on the reception desk to write down his phone number.

Ricky handed him a sticky note and Dean jotted down the number. She stuck the note to her monitor and said, "Now go. I promise I'll call you the minute I hear anything."

"No, I need to be here when someone comes out with word on Sam," Dean insisted, his green eyes capturing Ricky's brown in a penetrating gaze. "I have to."

"And if you pass out from exhaustion in the meantime?" Ricky chastised. "Look, I'm not going to be stupid enough to suggest you leave and actually get some sleep or anything. I'm talking about a short break to stretch your legs and artificially rejuvenate with the oh-so socially acceptable drug of caffeine." Ricky caught the look fierce determination and threw in a sucker punch. "You'll want to be awake for Sam, won't you?"

Dean narrowed his eyes in recognition of the blatant blackmail job. The sad thing was it was going to work. "Alright, I'll grab a cup of coffee," Dean stated. "I have a feeling it's going to be a long night anyway."

"It already has been," Ricky corrected, gesturing to the clock on the wall. "It's almost five o'clock."

Dean raised an eyebrow and asked, "You'll call me if you hear anything?"

"I promise," Ricky reaffirmed, holding up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute. "Go."

"I'll be back in ten minutes," Dean promised. He pointed at Ricky as he walked past her. "Call me."

"Go!" she shot back, turning to answer the phone.

Dean headed down towards the cafeteria to shoot his veins full of caffeine. The initial adrenaline rush of panic had ebbed and he was feeling the effects of being awake for nearly twenty hours. He hit the button to the elevator and the doors immediately opened. He climbed into the elevator, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a mini power snooze in the short trip down three stories.

"Family for Sam Elden?" Dr. Monroe called from the surgery doorway. When no one responded he strode over to the receptionist who was just hanging up the phone. "Is there anyone here for Sam Elden?"

"Yes, his brother is here. I was finally able to convince him to go get a cup of coffee not more than two minutes ago. I'll call him," Ricky replied. Picking up the phone she dialed Dean's number.

…………………………………………………………………

The cafeteria was packed with people which surprised Dean based on how empty the emergency waiting room was. He noticed most people walking around or eating breakfast were in hospital scrubs so he assumed it was the dayshift crew grabbing coffee or breakfast. Conversations were hushed, but it echoed in the tile and concrete cafeteria resulting in a dull roar of voices.

Dean waded through the crowd to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He popped a lid on the cup and headed back to the check out line. There were at least ten people in line in front of him and Dean was glad he had given Ricky his phone number. As it was, he still felt an anxious need to return as quickly as possible. He did not like being this far away from Sam.

By the time Dean made it to the cashier he had already sucked down nearly half of the twenty-four ounce coffee. "Is that all for you, hon?" the cashier asked. "Are you sure you don't want a bagel or a muffin? They're fresh."

"I'm not really hungry," Dean mumbled. He took another swig of the hot, black coffee and handed her five dollars.

"Okay, hon, here's your change," she said, handing Dean his change and flashing him a winning smile.

Dean did not reply nor did he notice the cashier's smile. He was preoccupied with thoughts of his brother and what was taking so long in surgery. He knew some of the cuts were pretty deep and the possibility of damaging something vital was a high probability. Mindlessly pocketing the money, Dean headed back towards the elevator.

……………………………………………………………………

"I'm sorry, I must have misdialed," Ricky apologized to the person on the other end of the line before hanging up the phone. She looked up at Dr. Monroe and said. "I don't know what's wrong. I dialed the right number. Dean should be back any minute now."

Dr. Monroe sighed impatiently and snapped, "Tell Mr. Elden when he desires information regarding Sam's condition he can have me paged. I will do my best to get back to him. Until then, Sam is in recovery, but he should be moved to his room within the hour. He can visit him then." With that, Dr. Monroe turned on his heel and strode out of the emergency waiting room and back through the surgical doors.

No sooner had the doors swung shut than the elevator dinged and Dean stepped out into the hall. "Dean!" Ricky called. Dean diverted his course to intercept with the reception desk.

"What's up?" Dean asked, his face turning serious at the expression on Ricky's face. "Did something happen? Is Sam okay? Why didn't you call?" he fired questions at her in rapid succession.

"I did try to call," Ricky replied. "A strange man answered and he seemed to think I was you at first. He said he's still waiting for you to realize you need help. It was very strange. Are you sure you gave me the right number?"

Dean leaned over the counter and looked at the sticky. It was his number. His mind flashed to an image of slipper clad feet and a thin, gnarled hand reaching for his phone that was lying in the grass. "That creepy little bastard," Dean muttered under his breath. "He snaked my phone."

"Dean, are you okay?" Ricky asked, the concern visible in her brown eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Dean replied his gaze reverting from inward to focusing on Ricky. "Why were you trying to call me? Any word on Sam?"

"Dr. Monroe said that Sam was in recovery right now, but that he would be moved to his own room within an hour. He said you could see him then, but in the meantime I can page Dr. Monroe and he will fill you in on Sam's condition," Ricky informed him.

"Where's recovery?" Dean demanded his green eyes flashing.

"Dean, you can't go back there," Ricky said not answering Dean's question.

"Screw that," Dean snapped. "Tell me where recovery is?"

Ricky saw then, the reason the other staff members were giving Dean a wide berth. His eyes were intense and his body language spoke of restrained power. "I'll, I'll page the doctor and he can explain Sam's condition," she stuttered taken aback by Dean's abrupt change in demeanor.

"If he's not here in five minutes, I'm not waiting for him," Dean stated. He thumped his palm on the desk causing Ricky to jump in her seat.

Ricky picked up the phone and paged Dr. Monroe. She certainly hoped he did manage to extricate his pompous ass quickly and join them in the waiting room. Ricky knew she wouldn't be able to stop Dean from leaving if he did not show up and she wasn't even going to try. After Dean left here he would be Dr. Monroe's problem, not hers.

"I paged the doctor," Ricky informed Dean. "He should be here soon."

Dean nodded at Ricky and stormed over to a chair to wait. He was not really angry with Ricky, but he was frustrated that he had missed the doctor and that Yoda had kyped his phone. He paced the room in a tight circle for several circuits until he became impatient and decided to leave to find Sam.

"Family for Sam Elden?" Dr. Monroe announced from the surgical door for the second time. So help him, if the brother wasn't here this time, he wasn't going to make time to do this again this morning. It had been a long rotation and he was ready for some well-earned shut eye.

"Here," Dean said moving to stand in front of Dr. Monroe. Dean was at least three inches taller than the good doctor and a great deal more muscular. He noticed Dr. Monroe stepped back a half step from Dean when he approached. Dean raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise acknowledge it.

"Sam lost a great deal of blood, but we were able to stabilize his condition with transfusions and surgery to repair the damage," Dr. Monroe stated. "He had muscular and tissue damage in his upper right anterior quadrant that appeared to be caused by an animal bite. We were able to repair the site and there will be minimal scarring, but he will have reduced muscle strength and will need to work to regain strength and mobility in his shoulder."

"What about the cuts in his stomach?" Dean replied his green eyes flashing in concern. His experience with doctors indicated they gave you the least serious injuries first and worked their way up to the more serious concerns as they went.

"Several of them, as well as the majority on his chest and legs were fairly superficial and were easily sutured," Dr. Monroe stated. He paused briefly and Dean interjected.

"And the others?" Dean asked growing impatient with the 'ease him into it' approach.

"Two were deep enough to seriously damage muscle," Dr. Monroe said. He quickly continued on at the look on Dean's face. "One was quite troublesome. We repaired a small nick in his spleen, but only time will tell if it was truly successful. The laceration was quite deep and soreness, weakness and infection are all a strong concern."

"When can I see him?" Dean asked. He could get the full scoop later. The only important fact he already knew. Sam would be okay.

"We'll be moving him to his own room within the next thirty minutes. He won't be awake for several hours however so I suggest you leave, get some sleep and come back around noon. He should be awake and able to talk by then," Dr. Monroe suggested.

"Not gonna happen," Dean responded. "Where is Sam?"

"Sam is in recovery right now. It won't be possible for you to see him right now anyway. As I suggested…" Dr. Monroe replied haughtily.

Dean stepped in closer to Dr. Monroe and the shorter man shifted nervously. "Where. Is. Sam?" he asked slowly and deliberately.

"Through those doors, down the hall, fourth door on the right," Dr. Monroe caved with a sigh. "Mr. Elden?" he called at Dean's disappearing form.

"Dean," he replied turning to look back at Dr. Monroe.

"Dean," Dr. Monroe corrected. "All of our rooms are private rooms and the chair in Sam's room will pull out into a small bed. It isn't comfortable, but you won't have to leave." Dr. Monroe supplied correctly anticipating Dean's future actions. He knew when he was licked and Dean Elden struck him as persistent man.

Nodding his head in acknowledgement Dean continued on to the recovery room. He walked through the door and was assaulted by the scent of antiseptics and ammonia. Dean hated the smell of hospitals. He spotted Sam easily and walked past two other patients as he made a bee-line for his brother. Unbeknownst to Dean one nurse moved to intercept him, but was stopped short by Dr. Monroe who had tailed Dean into the room.

Sam was pale, his face almost as white as the sheets that surrounded him. His brown hair stood out in dark contrast to the lack of color on his face. He was attached to three different machines that beeped out his vitals at regular intervals. Two bags hung down from his bed, one filled with a reddish fluid, the other yellow. Another two full bags provided a steady drip of fluids and medication to Sam via an I.V. drip, while one empty bag still dangled from the I.V. pole.

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

……………………………………………………………………

When he awoke, he was still cold. Opening his eyes slowly he focused on the flickering candles surrounding him. The voices had stopped chanting, but he knew the others were still here. He could still feel them, hovering, waiting for something.

He tried to move, to sit up, but the pain in his chest, stomach and legs were too intense and he fell back against the bed struggling to breathe through the pain. The others moved closer to him and the chanting began again in earnest. His breathing quickened as the pain and fear grew and when the knife was plunged into his chest he felt a rush of searing pain and then relief at the knowledge that it was finally over.

Outside the mausoleum, the wind blew through the trees whispering in angry conspiracy. The crescent moon shone through a break in the cloud cover and a lone, black dog howled.

TBC

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AN: Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **Lack of wit today reduces disclaimer to: Not mine. Not now. Not ever.

**Thank you: **To the fabulous and delightful Wysawyg who never seems to suffer from lack of wit. She's chock full. Couldn't do it without you!

**A special thank you: **To Heather03nmg for technical assistance. Very, very much appreciated and I won't forget what I promised. Although, I don't think I'll be getting that cookie for another chapter or two. BG.

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_Allamakee County Hospital_

As promised, thirty minutes later Sam was in his own room. Dean hunkered in the artificial darkness and although the hospital staff had brought him a pillow and a blanket so he could sleep, they sat on the little pull out chair unused. Dean was sitting in a hard folding chair next to Sam's bed watching him sleep. The only machine Sam was hooked to now tracked his blood pressure, heart rate and oxygen levels. The machine automatically inflated the cuff and took his blood pressure every thirty minutes, but unlike the steady beat of the woman's oxygen tank earlier, Dean did not mind this sound. It was a constant reassurance that Sam really was okay.

Dean brushed some of Sam's hair out from under the nasal canula and thought about what one of the nurses had told him earlier. She had gone into more detail for him regarding Sam's injuries. His heart had stopped once during surgery due to the blood loss and Dean obsessed over that one fact for quite some time. Sam had essentially died, if only for moment, and he had not been there. She had also mentioned there had been several internal lacerations, but the only one that had caused Dr. Monroe difficulty was the spleen. Everything else had been minor and easily repaired.

Dean huffed lightly and covered his face with his hands before rubbing one hand up his face and through his hair. Minor. How did one call any injury that required surgery and jeopardized the life of someone you loved 'minor'? It was a clinical, objective assessment, but in some strange way it angered Dean to hear it.

Oddly enough, the remark she had made about the rabies shots had made him feel even more impotent. That Sam was going to endure even such a small, but completely unnecessary pain because they could not admit the truth was another poke at Dean's soul. Another failure, however small, that would roll around in his psyche, bumping into future events and coloring his perceptions.

Dean would not be moving to the pull out chair. Instead he rested his head on Sam's bed, his fingers lightly brushing Sam's and drifted off into a light doze. He would wake up if Sam so much as twitched, but sleep was a welcome escape for however short a time it lasted.

"_Why don't we have a mom, Dean?" Sammy asked with a five-year-olds innocence. "The other kids have moms."_

"_You know, Sammy," Dean replied, stopping on the sidewalk and crouching down to look his little brother in the eyes. "Mom died when you were a baby."_

"_But why, Dean?" Sammy asked. Jeffrey Summers had called him an orphan at school and he wanted to understand what had happened to their mom. "Why our mom?"_

"_Sometimes bad things happen," Dean replied. He gave Sam a look of concern. "Why are you asking?"_

"_Jeffrey Summers called me an orphan today," Sam replied quietly. He knew Dean was going to be mad and he didn't like when Dean was mad even if it wasn't at him. He cast his eyes downward unable to look Dean in the eyes. "I wanted to know why mom left us to be orphans."_

"_Sammy," Dean replied, gently placing his hands on Sammy's small shoulders. "Mom didn't leave because she wanted to and we aren't orphans. We still have Dad."_

_Sammy shrugged off Dean's hands and his backpack at the same time. Rummaging around in his backpack he pulled out a crumpled piece of white paper. He handed it to Dean who read the note carefully before handing it back to his brother. "What's the problem?" Dean asked. "I'll go to your conference."_

_Sammy nodded and mumbled. "I know, Dean, but it says Dad is supposed to go. When I told Ms. Endersen that Dad wouldn't be able to go, Jeffrey heard and that's when he started saying I was an orphan."_

_Dean's anger bubbled to the surface, clearly visible to his little brother before he squelched it under a practiced mask even at the age of ten. "Don't be mad, Dean," Sammy whispered. "Please."_

"_I'm not mad, Sammy," Dean lied. "Dad would be here if he could. He's on a trip, but he'll be home for your birthday next week. It just isn't going to be in time for conferences. Besides, our mom is an angel now and she watches over you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."_

"_Really?" Sammy asked. "That gives me three people and Jeffrey only has two."_

"_Three?" Dean asked confusion on his face._

"_Mom, Dad and you," Sammy replied ticking them off on his fingers. "You're the best though because you make chocolate milk and read me bedtime stories."_

_Dean ruffled Sammy's hair and said, "Let's go. We're supposed to call Dad when we get to the motel and we're running late."_

"_Okay," Sammy replied, slipping on his backpack and running to keep up with Dean._

…………………………

"_Dean, I've been thinking," Sam started._

"_Well, that's never a good thing," Dean interrupted tossing his leather coat over a chair._

"_I'm serious. I've been thinking, why would this demon, uh whatever it is, why would it kill Mom and Jessica and Max's mom? I mean what does it want?" Sam asked, shoving research papers into his messenger bag._

"_I have no idea," Dean replied, rolling his shirt and stuffing it into his duffel bag._

"_Well maybe, you think it was after us…after Max and me?" Sam asked._

"_Why would you think that?" Dean asked, giving Sam his full attention._

"_I mean, either telekinesis or premonitions. We both had abilities, you know?" Sam asked. "Maybe, maybe it was after us for some reason."_

_Dean returned to rolling his clothes and shook his head. "Sam, if it wanted you it would have just taken you." Sam looked away as Dean continued. "Okay? This is not your fault. It's not about you."_

"_Then what is it about?" Sam asked, still not meeting Dean's eyes._

"_It's about that damn thing that did this to our family," Dean insisted. "The thing that we're gonna find, and the thing that we're gonna kill, and that's all."_

………………………

"_I'm not even supposed to be here, Sammy," Dean replied the hurt in his eyes almost too painful for Sam to bear. "Dad made a deal with the demon and look what's become of it." _

……………………

"_What's dead should stay dead!"_

…………………

_Sam's heart broke into little pieces along with Dean's voice. _

Sam gasped as he awoke. "Sammy?" Dean asked his voice sounding so much more like Dean than in his dream. It was worry laced with sleepiness, but not the raw hurt of recent memories.

"Mmhmm," Sam hummed through his nose. He didn't open his eyes, they were too heavy and he was too tired.

"Sam, open your eyes," Dean commanded. Sam never could resist that tone. His eyelids fluttered and he managed to pry them open at least for a moment. "Come on, Sammy," Dean tried again softening his tone. "You can do it."

With supreme effort Sam opened his eyes and held Dean's gaze for a moment before closing them again. "Tired," he apologized.

"That's okay," Dean reassured him. "Are you hurting?"

Sam took mental inventory. "No," he said, surprise evident in his mumbled reply. The last thing he clearly remembered was the ghoulish creature on top of him, taking a bite out of him.

"S'goo," Dean's distant voice replied. "Mebidee still working." Dean's voice faded in and out like a bad cell phone connection.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "I didn't catch that. What'd you say?" Sam never received a reply, but it did not matter. He was enveloped in dreams once more.

Dean looked up as a nurse entered the room. He had seen her once already. Her name was Sharon or Shelly or something like that. "He was awake, but only for a minute," Dean informed her. He caught the name on her hospital I.D. badge. Cheryl, that was it.

"That's good," Cheryl replied. "He should be awake longer next time. Make sure you call for one of us when that happens." Cheryl straightened the blankets on Sam's bed and pulled out an ear thermometer. It beeped in only seconds and she examined the display. "99.6, not bad," she stated. She turned to Dean. "How're you holding up?"

"I'm good," Dean replied with a smile half the wattage it normally was.

"Uh-huh," Cheryl said. "I can tell. You haven't slept at all, have you? And when was the last time you ate anything?"

"I did sleep," Dean snapped petulantly. It sounded false even to his own ears. "And, I'm not really hungry." He fingered the white thermal cotton blanket on Sam's bed, but did not make eye contact with Cheryl. "Really, I'm fine."

"I'll have a sandwich sent up with the patient trays," Cheryl stated decisively. "You'll eat it and be quiet about it."

Dean did look up now. He gave the five-foot-two red-head the Dean Winchester death glare. "I don't know why everyone keeps trying to get me to eat, but I'm not hungry."

""Would you let him get away with that?" Cheryl asked, gesturing towards Sam. She took in Dean's look and continued. "No, I didn't think so and there's a reason for that. You'll need to eat to keep yourself healthy for your brother. You said you were his only family, right?"

"Yeah," Dean replied warily.

"So, you're going to need to rest, keep up your own strength and keep yourself healthy. He's going to be more than a little sore here," Cheryl lectured. She sat down next to Dean and placed a hand on his arm. "He's going to need physical therapy, strengthening exercises and even help with basic needs at first. I think I'm correct in assuming you're going to want to do that yourself?"

"He's my brother," Dean replied simply. He squirmed from sitting so long in the uncomfortable chair and the intense scrutiny from Cheryl. "Send in the sandwich," he conceded. "And a paper."

"You got it," Cheryl said smiling, proud of her win. "You should try to sleep too."

"Don't push it," Dean warned her. When Cheryl turned to leave he added, "Do you know where Sam's personal stuff is?"

Cheryl looked puzzled for a moment and said, "His clothes were bagged as biohazard waste. Oh, but I think his shoes and phone were put in a personal bag. Check the cupboard." She gestured towards a small door at the foot of Sam's bed as she continued out the door.

Dean unfolded his six-foot-one frame from the tiny metal chair and reached for the cupboard door. There on the floor was a small plastic bag containing Sam's shoes and cell phone. His brother's life reduced to the contents in a plastic bag. He knew Sam's laptop was in the Impala as they never left it in the motel room anymore, but their clothes bags were still in the room. Dean figured he would have to fetch them at some point, but now was not the time.

He opened the drawstring bag and pulled out Sam's cell phone. He was planning to call his own phone and confront the little house elf when Sam's phone started ringing. Dean stared at it for a moment in complete disbelief. DEAN'S CELL clearly showed on the LCD display. The battery on Sam's cell phone was low, but Dean decided to answer the phone and give him hell for as long as the battery would allow.

"Listen, I don't know who you are and frankly I don't care," Dean snapped into the phone. "Sam is fine now. You need to drop this."

"Sam is not fine now," the old caretaker remarked, his scratchy voice emanating from the cell. "He is in grave danger and you must bring him to me."

"Not going to happen," Dean replied. "Why'd you steal my phone?"

"I needed to be certain I could reach you again," the caretaker replied. "And more importantly, that you could reach me."

"Yeah well you better not break it," Dean quipped. "I've got all my favorite songs downloaded on it. I'll be back for it."

"I know," the old man replied knowingly and the line went dead.

Dean checked the battery display, but it still had one bar. He had been deliberately hung up on by the quirky caretaker. Dean rolled his eyes and turned off the phone to conserve the battery. He pocketed Sam's phone and stretched. He was tired of sitting, but there was not a lot of room for pacing. All the rooms in the hospital may have been private rooms, but they were also small. He doubted he could pace in here without tripping over something.

Sam moaned and shifted on the bed. "Hey, you awake?" Dean asked, his hand latching on to the arm without the I.V. He was dismayed by how warm Sam felt.

"Dean?" Sam moaned. "Hurts."

Dean frowned. Sam did not complain about pain, he suffered through it in true Winchester fashion. "I'll get someone in here," Dean reassured him as he reached for the call button.

Sam registered the movement and grabbed Dean's shirt sleeve. "Don't leave," he begged.

Now Dean was worried. Sam yelled, lectured and even nagged him, but he rarely begged. "I'm not going anywhere, Sammy," Dean said. "I'm just calling someone in."

"Is he awake?" Cheryl asked from the doorway. A shaft of light from the hall hit Dean square in the eye and he turned away from Cheryl to answer.

"Yeah and he's in pain," Dean answered.

Cheryl flicked on the lights over Sam's bed and Sam pressed his eyelids together tightly. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being very painful, how strong is the pain?" she asked slipping the thermometer into Sam's ear again.

"Five," Sam replied tightly as the thermometer beeped.

"Sam," Dean chastised. He turned his attention from Sam to Cheryl. "It has to be at least an eight for him to be complaining about it."

"His temperature is up to 101.2 degrees," Cheryl remarked, keeping her expression carefully neutral. She lightly tapped Sam's arm. "Hey there, sweetie, I'm going to check your incision site, the one on your stomach, okay? Do you want me to ask your brother to leave?"

"No," Sam managed to force out. Dean gently squeezed Sam's elbow. He hated being helpless to help Sam, unable to soothe the pain, but this went way beyond his ability fix.

Cheryl missed her second dose of Dean's death glare as she focused on Sam. She pulled down the blanket to his hips and lifted his gown enough to check his incision. His abdomen was slightly distended and very warm to the touch. Lifting the bandage, she could see the staples pulling angry red skin tightly together, made worse by the swelling. She pressed gently near the site and asked, "Is the pain dull or sharp?"

Sam gripped the bed sheets in his hands, his knuckles turning white. "Sharp," he hissed.

Dean watched Cheryl closely. He didn't like her poking Sam, but he knew it needed to be done. There was obviously something wrong. He noticed the moment her eyes changed from cautious concern to panic. "Is everything okay?" he asked in carefully measured tones.

Cheryl shot Dean an unreadable look as she replaced the dressing and covered Sam back up. She checked the drainage tube for kinks or blockage and lifted the drainage bag slightly to look at it before replacing it on the bed rail. "I'm going to get the doctor in here, Sam," Cheryl replied at last. "He'll want to look at your incision too and he'll probably prescribe additional pain relief. Can you hold on for a few minutes?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, opening his hazel eyes and catching Cheryl's. He had not missed the slight edge in Dean's voice before and it worried him. "What's wrong?"

Cheryl caved under Sam's puppy dog expression and turned to face Dean's jade green eyes of concern. That was not any better. "Has anyone ever been able to deny him anything?" she asked with an attempt at levity.

"Not that I'm aware of," Dean deadpanned. "You may as well spill it because I'll find out and then I'll tell him. What's going on?"

"Maybe nothing," Cheryl replied looking a little cornered. "Look, I'm a nurse, not a doctor. I can't diagnose. I can only assess a patient's condition."

Dean shook his head. "I don't know what the difference is and frankly I don't care. We won't say anything," he said using his best smooth-talking voice.

Cheryl pulled on the stethoscope around her neck in nervous frustration before making a decision. "Sam really shouldn't be in much pain right now. We still have him on strong painkillers. I think it's possible Sam is still bleeding internally. The swelling, pain and fever are all indicators, but the biggest one is the color of the blood in the drainage bag. It's still bright red which indicates oxygenated blood."

"Go," Dean ordered. "Get the doctor and come back. I want someone in here until that doctor shows up."

"Dean, don't do anything stupid," Sam stated weakly. "We still need the doctor in one piece."

"Dr. Monroe isn't on duty right now," Cheryl informed them as she rushed out of the room. "You'll be seeing Dr. Chadwick."

"All the better," Dean muttered. It would save him the trouble of beating the good doctor soundly, at least for now.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, gripping Dean's shirt sleeve again. "Something's not right."

"I know, Sam," Dean replied with uncharacteristic softness. "That's why Cheryl is getting the doctor."

"No, I mean something isn't right," Sam tried again. He scrunched his face in pain and gripped Dean's arm tighter.

Dean did not have an opportunity to respond before the door opened again and a very young doctor walked in followed closely by Cheryl. "No way am I letting Doogie Howser here near Sam," Dean protested loudly.

"You have to," Sam stated. For a moment Dean saw the five-year-old, afraid of thunder storms Sam and it caused his heart to clench. Sam was scared.

"Yeah, okay, but I'm keeping on eye on you," Dean replied, pointing at Dr. Chadwick.

"Sam, do you mind if your brother stays while I examine you?" Dr. Chadwick asked ignoring Dean.

"You try making him leave," Sam quipped weakly.

Dr. Chadwick's young face broke out in a grin. "That bad, is he?"

"Worse."

Dr. Chadwick chuckled lightly and repeated the actions of the nurse earlier. Sam was unable to suppress a moan when Dr. Chadwick prodded his stomach. Only super human self-control kept Dean from coming unhinged. It was next to impossible to simply sit here while others deliberately caused Sam pain, however necessary they deemed it to be. "You did fine, Sam," Dr. Chadwick replied. "I think it is possible something was missed in surgery and I'd like your permission to perform exploratory surgery."

"How soon?" Sam asked.

"Now," Dr. Chadwick replied. "We really shouldn't delay."

"He'll do it," Dean stated from his position by Sam's bed.

Dr. Chadwick looked from Dean back to Sam. At Sam's slight head nod he replied, "Good. I'll get someone in here to move you to surgery immediately." He turned to Cheryl and said, "I'd like to run a CBC first. Have the lab send the results directly to the OR." Cheryl nodded in understanding and Dr. Chadwick quickly left the room to prep for surgery.

"Dean, there won't be room in here for you when they come for Sam," Cheryl stated. "Your sandwich and paper are out on the nurses' desk. Why don't you grab them and take a break? Sam's going to be awhile. I'll have you paged when he gets back to his room."

"I'm not leaving until they get here," Dean replied. He had caught the look on Sam's face that Sam had immediately tried to hide, but it was too late. Dean knew his brother too well. "And then I promise I'll step out of the way. I don't want to do anything that will delay help for Sam. Trust me."

"I know," Cheryl replied. "I'm going to step outside and wait for the orderlies." And with that, she was gone in a swirl of white and soft rubber-soled shoes.

Dean smiled. "You know, I think I really like her."

"She's nice," Sam agreed a small hint of his usual smile on his face. "But she likes me best."

"Nobody's perfect, Sammy," Dean replied squeezing Sam's arm lightly. "Hey, I'll be here when you wake up again."

"I know," Sam replied a look of complete trust on his face. He grimaced against a fresh wave of pain. "You always are."

Two orderlies appeared in the doorway and Dean stood up. "I've got to step out now. They're here for you," Dean stated.

Sam only nodded when Dean left the room. He waited outside the door until the orderlies emerged, pushing Sam down the hall towards surgery. Dean was not sure what he was going to do while he waited, but sitting in the waiting room doing nothing was not at the top of his list.

Dean grabbed the sandwich and the paper and headed down to the Impala. There was no way he was going to leave the hospital to grab their bags and check out of the motel while Sam was in surgery, but he could grab the laptop and check for any research notes Sam may have stored on the hard-drive.

The parking garage was cool, dark and smelled vaguely of car emissions and urine. It only took Dean a moment to remember where he had parked the Impala early this morning. Dean opened the door and snagged the laptop from the backseat. He tucked the paper under his arm, pulled the messenger bag over the other and headed back inside.

If Cheryl was going to page him he could afford to wait in the cafeteria for awhile and eat his sandwich. If he had to sit with the old woman and her oxygen tank again this afternoon one of them wasn't going to make it.

Unlike this morning, the cafeteria was quiet and nearly empty. Dean purchased a cup of coffee and took a seat at a back table. He smoothed out the paper and the front page headlined blared out at him. **Mayor's Son Missing. **The article went on to mention he had been missing for nearly forty-eight hours and no ransom demands had been made. There was some speculation it was connected to the three other missing family members of city officials. _Damn, _Dean thought. _They're going to kill him. _

Dean mulled over the new found information and ran his hand across his face in frustration. He couldn't leave Sam here alone. Today had proven that to him a hundred-fold. However, he couldn't leave the job unfinished until Sam was well. People were dying and…'undying.' Lack of sleep, stress, worry and frustration all warred against him until he broke down into chuckles over his own joke. He caught the concerned looks he garnered from the two other patrons, but he didn't care.

Regaining his composure, Dean reached a decision. He pulled out Sam's cell phone and turned it back on. Dialing a number he now knew by heart, Dean waited through the first two rings before the phone was answered. "Sam's been hurt, he's hurt pretty bad," Dean said speaking quickly, rushing to get through his explanation. "I can't leave him here alone and I need help." Dean's voice cracked slightly and he swallowed hard before continuing. "How long would it take you to get to Flatt Plains, Iowa?"

…………………………………………………………………

Umholtz pulled the hood on his robe over his head and walked down the candle lit aisle towards the altar at the back of the room. The other members of the Chevalier de Saxe chanted in perfect harmony and rhythm, their voices echoing in the large chamber. Umholtz smiled as the ceremony began. Soon the pieces would fall together and then his true power would be revealed.

He poured the goat's blood out of the silver chalice and over the altar in the traditional beginning ritual. Lighting the red candles, he chanted the incantation of the dead. Soon another would be subjugated under his control and his realm of influence would grow.

TBC

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Feedback feeds the angst-ridden muse.

Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **If they were mine, I'd be taking time off this summer and going somewhere more exciting than Minnesota to visit my folks.

**Thank you: **As always to Wysawyg and her infamous beta bat which she used to knock some sense into me. Thanks, I needed that.

**A Special Thank you: **To Jen for late night discussions over the questionable state of our sanity and the impressive, virtual butt-kicking. Also to Heather03nmg for her research and expertise – you're awesome!

**Warning: **Very minor season 2 spoilers. If you blink – you'll miss 'em!

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_Regaining his composure, Dean reached a decision. He pulled out Sam's cell phone and turned it back on. Dialing a number he now knew by heart, Dean waited through the first two rings before the phone was answered. "Sam's been hurt, he's hurt pretty bad," Dean said speaking quickly, rushing to get through his explanation. "I can't leave him here alone and I need help." Dean's voice cracked slightly and he swallowed hard before continuing. "How long would it take you to get to Flatt Plains, Iowa?"_

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_Allamakee County Hospital_

Pulling his truck to a stop inside the small parking garage at the hospital, the flannel clad man pulled his cap down further over his eyes and stepped out of the dusty cab. He strode towards the stairs at a quick, even clip covering a quarter the length of the garage before the door slammed closed. His boots pounded on the concrete.

It did not take him long to find the post surgical unit or the nurses desk. "Sam Elden," He snapped out.

"Of course," a younger blond nurse muttered not looking up from her charts.

"Room 319," an older, gray-haired nurse replied pointing down the hall. "He's not awake yet, but…" She stopped when the rough-looking man walked away before she finished. She sat down with a huff and muttered, "Well, he's definitely related to those boys."

Dean looked up as the door to Sam's room slowly creaked open. "Come on in, Bobby," Dean called in a hushed voice. "He's still out."

Bobby squeezed into the small room and tried to fit into the corner nook. He managed to essentially fall into the window and took a seat on the sill. "How is he?" He asked gruffly. Bobby seemed to lack the ability to whisper unless he was hunting and Dean frowned.

"They have him on some massive painkillers," Dean informed him. "He hasn't even moved in the two hours he's been out of surgery." Dean paused. "For the second time."

"They had to go back in?" Bobby asked, pushing his cap further up on his forehead. While he always had an easier time relating to Dean because of their shared passion for cars and hunting, he had a soft spot for both of John Winchester's boys. Bobby preferred his mountain of books to Sam's Internet research, but it had always been common ground for them. He remembered many a time, a young Sam had worn him out with his insatiable desire for knowledge. "What happened?"

"That's part of the problem," Dean replied. The absolute exhaustion in Dean's voice registered with Bobby. "The first doctor missed a bleeder," Dean continued rubbing his hand along the stubble on his chin. "Sam was hemorrhaging, but luckily his nurse at the time reacted quickly or I might have lost him, Bobby."

"He's fine now?" Bobby asked. He was not convinced. Sam looked extremely pale.

"So they say," Dean replied softly. "He was attacked in the cemetery by, jeez I can't believe I'm going to say this, by some sort of ghoulish zombie creature."

Bobby frowned, took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair causing it to stick out wildly in all directions. He was tempted to ask Dean if he was kidding, but he knew Dean didn't joke about anything pertaining to his brother's safety. One of these days, Bobby was afraid Dean would do something stupid or incredibly foolhardy to keep his brother safe. "Are you sure?" he asked unable to find another way to voice his doubt. He was tired after covering two hundred miles in less than three hours.

"I'm not sure of anything right now," Dean admitted tiredly. "Sam seemed pretty sure and he told me something was wrong before they took him back to surgery."

"Something was wrong," Bobby stated. "Let me finish," he said at Dean's look of frustration. "Doesn't mean there isn't something weird going on here, just means it may not be as bad as you think."

"It was the way he said it," Dean contradicted. "Sam sounded like he knew something and after everything that's happened I'm inclined to believe his hunches."

Bobby nodded in agreement. "Thing is, ghouls are considered mythical monsters, not real supernatural entities. Course, by definition a monster is born, not a person who's been turned so we should be safe there."

"Safe from a mythical monster that actually does exist and that ate a hunk of Sam's chest?" Dean asked his voice growing in volume. "That doesn't seem like the delightfully paranoid Bobby I've come to know and respect."

"Calm down, Dean," Bobby replied, shoving his cap back on his head. "I mean safe from Sam turning into one of those things. If he really is being affected by it, I'll have to do some research of my own. Everything I've ever read simply says they kill by ripping and devouring. Theoretically, Sam should be safe, but you know I…" Bobby stopped short when he noticed Sam stirring.

"Sam?" Dean asked. "Are you awake?"

"Who could sleep with you two bickering like an old married couple," Sam replied weakly in a raspy whisper. He opened his eyes and flicked them in Dean's direction. "Thirsty."

"Let me grab a nurse," Bobby offered, standing up and squeezing back through the small room. "They'll want to know he's awake."

"Thanks," Dean replied, shooting Bobby a grateful look. The second shift nurse had delivered a cup of ice chips for Sam about half an hour ago and left it with strict instructions not to give Sam more than a couple of small spoonfuls. Any more and Sam might get nauseous and vomit. That was more than enough incentive for Dean to obey her orders.

He grabbed the cup and scooped up a spoonful of ice chips. "How about if I help you with this one?" he asked, relieving Sam of the burden of asking for help.

Sam cast Dean a look of gratitude, but otherwise made no comment. Instead he compliantly opened his mouth and allowed Dean to spoon feed him ice chips. He avoided eye contact with Dean, ashamed of his weakness.

"You're awake," Jean the gray-haired nurse from the desk stated. "How are feeling?" she asked slipping into the room, easily avoiding the major obstacles.

"Still tired," Sam replied. He shifted in the bed and licked his lips. "My throat is sore."

Jean nodded and explained, "They had to intubate you during surgery. Your throat may be a bit sore for awhile." She quickly took his temperature and read the display. "Temp's still at 101.2, but that should start to come back down. Do you have any other pain?"

"No," Sam replied not reassured by that fact. He had been pain-free the first time he woke up.

"Good," Jean said, fussing with Sam's pillows and blankets. "You let me know when that changes. I'm going to bring in an incentive spirometer for you to start breathing exercises. The next time you wake up you should have enough energy to use it. I'll show you how when I bring it in. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed. He waited until the nurse left the room before he relaxed back into the pillows.

"Sam, how are you really feeling?" Dean asked, his eyes probing into Sam's soul seeking out the truth.

"I'm not hurting," Sam evaded in a scratchy voice. He fiddled with canula tubing that ran down beside him avoiding Dean's questioning gaze.

Dean sighed. He hadn't wanted to ask this question. "Do you still feel like something is wrong?"

"I think maybe," Sam began, resting one hand lightly on his stomach. "I don't know. I don't feel much of anything right now except for this pit in my stomach."

"Damn, Sammy," Dean quipped with a slight grin. "Those are some pretty good drugs they have you on."

"Yeah, I guess," Sam replied, closing his eyes. His breathing gradually evened out and slowed and his fingers fell away from the plastic tubing and softly back onto the bed.

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. He did not believe for a moment that Sam was okay. He didn't even need to recalibrate his Sammy radar to know that. It hung in the air, the heavy weight of apprehension bearing down on him. Dean needed to figure out what was going on with Sam and he was beginning to think the place to start was at the cemetery. Now that Bobby was here to watch over Sam he could leave to complete the salt and burn. While he was there, he was getting back his phone and wrangling the truth from the old caretaker. It was then Dean registered the fact Bobby had not returned.

Dean sighed in frustration. Bobby was supposed to be here to help and he disappeared? That was not like him. Dean rested his head in his hands and contemplated his next move. It was still only late afternoon and too early for a salt and burn. He could start with the caretaker, knock that know-it-all attitude out of him and find out what he thought was wrong with Sam. The more he thought about it, the more he figured it was the best way to start. He must have dozed off for a minute because when he heard a thud near his feet it startled him awake and he jumped in his chair.

"Checked you out of that motel on my way through earlier," Bobby explained. "Figured you boys didn't need any extra attention and besides you might want your gear. What I hadn't counted on, was you."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, puzzled.

"Don't know why the pretty little ladies around here didn't tell you," Bobby explained. "But you stink. How long has it been since you changed clothes – or showered?"

"I've had other things on my mind," Dean replied with shades of annoyance.

"Yeah, well you need to shower and change," Bobby replied. He continued when he saw Dean was about to protest. "Before your brother is less out of it and catches sight of your clothes."

Dean's expression of confusion changed to understanding as he took a good look at his clothes. His shirt and jeans were both covered in bloodstains. He couldn't leave here with these clothes on, it would draw too much attention to himself. He tossed Bobby a grateful look and picked up his duffel bag, dragging it into Sam's microscopic bathroom.

He was pleasantly surprised to discover a small shower tucked into the corner. He knew it was for patient use, but he could shower, shave and change into clean clothes in less than five minutes when he needed to. Dean would not get caught with his proverbial pants down.

True to his predictions, Dean emerged from the bathroom four and a half minutes later with wet hair, minus the stubble on his chin and wearing a clean set of clothes. "Better?" he asked Bobby opening his arms wide to afford Bobby a full view.

"Well, at least you don't stink anymore," Bobby conceded. He figured Dean had only showered and changed for the practical reasons of blending in to the crowd and not drawing attention to himself, but Bobby was pleased he had done that one small thing to take care of himself. He swore when there was something wrong with Sam, Dean forgot to do anything but fight and defend.

"Hey, I'm adorable," Dean protested with a grin. He took a good look at Sam and his grin faded. He was still very pale and to Dean's practiced eye, his breathing seemed labored despite the oxygen. "I'm going to have to leave," Dean stated tearing his eyes from Sam and towards Bobby. "I need you to stay here with Sam."

"I figured that's why you called me," Bobby asked. "That and my famous bedside manner."

"More like infamous," Dean corrected his grin making a token reappearance. "I don't think, 'what they hell are you doing up?' or 'stay put you're going to bust open all my hard work' count as good bedside manner."

"Never said it was a good bedside manner," Bobby agreed good-naturedly. He tapped a stack of books sitting on the windowsill. "I brought in some resource books on monsters and creatures. I may be able to find out something while you are gone."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean replied. He shouldered his duffel bag and said, "Tell him I'll be back soon."

"And where should I tell him you went?" Bobby asked. He had a feeling he was not going to like the answer.

"Try to avoid answering him," Dean replied. "Let him think I went to the motel to sleep or something. I don't want him worrying and you know he will."

"Right, that'll work on that brother of yours for about ten seconds," Bobby replied sarcastically. "He questions everything and you throw me the unbelievable excuse of you going back to the motel to sleep? Where are you really going?"

"The cemetery," Dean replied simply. "And you're right, he'll never buy anything else. Just, just try to keep him here and focused on getting better. I'll be back soon."

"Saddling me with the impossible task I see," Bobby joked and moved to the folding chair previously occupied by Dean. "His example growing up was never much one for sitting around recovering when there was still a job left to do."

"Dad always was stubborn," Dean agreed. "I'll call you if I find out anything." With a head nod of assent from Bobby, Dean turned on his heel and left.

"Never said I was talking about your daddy," Bobby muttered under his breath.

_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop behind the cover of the brush and trees. He pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and slid out of the car. Grabbing his gun out of the trunk and tucking it into his waistband, Dean slammed down the trunk lid and turned to search the cemetery for the caretaker. He had considered simply calling his own phone, but he wasn't sure he wanted to give the old man the advance warning.

"Where's Sam?" the voice of the caretaker chirped behind Dean.

Dean whirled around and pulled out his gun on reflex, his flashlight aimed with his gun. "How do you know who Sam and I are?" he demanded angrily.

"I don't," the caretaker said, blinking against the light in his eyes. "Some of the dead know who the Winchesters are." He took two steps closer to Dean, stood on his toes and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. "They tell me."

Dean jerked his head in surprise and took a good look at the caretaker. The caretaker's blue eyes registered his sincerity. That meant he either really did speak to the dead or he was crazy, Dean wasn't sure which.

"It could be both," the caretaker nodded amiably. "They aren't mutually exclusive possibilities."

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "So what, now you read minds too?"

"No," the old man replied knowingly, but he did not elaborate further. Instead he stated his oft repeated refrain, "Where is Sam?"

"He's at the hospital. Where he belongs," Dean snapped. He reached out to grab the collar of the caretaker's overcoat, but the caretaker was spryer than he appeared and he evaded Dean's grasp.

"You really should trust me," the caretaker replied, a pout on his lips. "It's starting to hurt my feelings."

Dean stared at him incredulously for a moment. "It's starting to hurt your feelings?" he spluttered. "We're talking about my brother's life and I'm supposed to be concerned about your feelings?"

"You should always be concerned for others' feelings," the man continued. "It's only polite."

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration. The caretaker's ever-present dog chose that moment to make an appearance and placed its forepaws on Dean's chest, soiling his clean shirt. The scent of wet dog assaulted his nose and Dean sighed. "Let's start over. What do you know about Sam?"

_Allamakee County Hospital_

"_Looks like you're going to have to leave town without me this time."_

"_Did he say anything to you…about anything?"_

"_It's a tough gig. I drew the short straw."_

"_Whatever you do, don't make her angry."_

"_I'm dying and there's nothing you can do about it."_

"_Watch me."_

The next time Sam gasped awake, his brother's voice did not call to him in reassurance. That alone was enough to make Sam pry his eyelids open and focus his bleary eyes on the room around him. The figure next to his bed took solid form and Sam recognized the smell of oil. "Hey, Bobby," Sam croaked.

Bobby looked up from his book. "Sam, good to see you awake," Bobby said, moving the side table closer to Sam so he could get a drink if wanted one and hitting the call button. He was not the best nursemaid and it was time to call in the pros. He could see the pinched look in Sam's eyes and knew the painkillers were wearing off. They would no doubt be weaning Sam off the really strong stuff that seemed to knock the kid out.

He watched as Sam struggled to lift the water glass. Sam tried three times to lift the mug and in the end opted for pulling the table closer and bending down to sip out of the straw. Bobby noticed the wince when Sam bent over. The drugs must be more worn off than he originally thought.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asked trying to sound casual. _Please don't say at the cemetery, _Sam chanted in his head several time.

"Uh, he's," Bobby hesitated. He caught the knowing look on Sam's face and the glint in his eye and confirmed the Sam's hunch. "He's at the cemetery."

"He's finishing that salt and burn by himself, isn't he?" Sam asked in a harsh whisper. "Why aren't you with him?"

Bobby sighed. Heaven spare him from the Winchesters. Each one unwilling to acknowledge they needed help, but both willing to sacrifice themselves for the other. "Dean needs his wits about him to finish that salt and burn. The only way he can keep his mind focused on that job is if he knows you are safe and the only way he knows that is if I stay here," Bobby lectured.

Sam opened his mouth to retort, but stopped short when a nurse entered the room. "Good to see you awake again, Sam," Jean said, stepping into the room. "I'm just going to take your vitals and watch you try out the incentive spirometer. We're going to give the anesthesia another two hours or so to work its way out of your system before we have you up and ambulating."

Sam nodded, but Bobby asked, "Come again?"

"Oh, sorry," Jean replied, tucking stray gray hair back into her bun. "I need Sam to work on his breathing exercises, but we won't get him up and moving around until the next time." Jean pulled out the ear thermometer, popped on a sanitary cap and placed it in Sam's ear. When it beeped, Jean looked at the readout and frowned. "Sam, how are you feeling?"

"A little cold," Sam admitted. He shivered and pulled his blanket up tighter with shaky hands. He hated the drugs they were giving him. Between the vivid dreams and the physical side effects he was feeling out of control.

"Not surprising," Jean replied, pocketing the thermometer. "Your temperature is up to 101.8. We'll have to keep an eye on it." Jean picked up the incentive spirometer and held it out for Sam. "Give it a try, Sam. I'd like to see you keep the indicator up here for all three tries," she said, pointing to the target lines.

Sam attempted to hit the target lines all three times and all three times he failed miserably. Jean frowned and checked his O2 levels. Everything checked out normal. "You keep working on it," Jean stated. "It'll improve." She patted Sam on the shoulder and walked out of the room.

Sam and Bobby shared a look of confusion over her abrupt departure. "She was certainly…" Bobby started, but stopped when the door to Sam's room swung open again.

Jean walked in carrying two additional blankets. She shook them open and laid them over the top of Sam. "That should help with the chills," Jean stated, straightening the blankets and tucking them tightly around the foot of Sam's bed. "You're cold because of the fever and the effects of the anesthesia leaving your system. You should start to warm up in a couple of hours."

She turned to Bobby, placed her hands on her hips and said, "He'll probably fall asleep again soon. Call the nurses' desk the next time he wakes up. We need to get him up and walking around soon." Jean left the room again, but this time the door remained closed and she did not reappear.

"She's a bossy one," Bobby remarked once he was certain she was not coming back.

Sam grinned weakly and raised one eyebrow. "You're afraid of her." It was a statement, not a question. He kicked with his feet attempting to liberate them from the cotton prison, but he lacked the strength and the movement caused the staples in his legs to pull skin taut and send ripples of pain from his hips to his toes.

"Damn straight," Bobby replied, pulling the blankets loose. "That woman has ruler-wielding nun written all over her."

Sam chuckled lightly which caused a mild attack of coughing to ensue. The pit in his stomach grew until he heaved in short gasps trying to catch his breath. The recently repaired lacerations on his chest and stomach protested against the punishment and grew hot in intensity. Spots appeared in his vision and Sam recognized the signs of an impending blackout.

He felt the icy rush of medication enter his veins and a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. Sam struggled to control his breathing and when he finally succeeded, he flopped back against the pillows. He laid there for several minutes with his eyes closed, simply enjoying a few moments of easy breathing and the relief it brought. The feeling that he could not quite catch his breath and that he was unable to sustain his own life was not one Sam relished. It reminded him too much of being strangled.

When Sam finally opened his eyes he was not surprised to see Bobby leaning forward in his chair keeping a close watch on him. There was more wrong with him than physical injuries, Sam was sure of it now. Although the coughing fit had spurned on a fresh round of pain it only amplified the feeling that something was somehow off, not disguised it. Whatever was going on, he could no longer afford to sit around doing nothing. Dean was risking his life out in the cemetery by himself. The least Sam could do is figure out the riddle of the amulet.

"Bobby, is my laptop in here?" Sam wheezed, the coughing having aggravated his already abused throat.

"Yeah, but don't worry about research right now," Bobby insisted, tapping his stack of books again. "I got it covered."

"I need to check my email," Sam protested, struggling to sit up fully. "I sent a picture of the amulet Dean and I found at the necromancy church to an anthropology professor. I'm hoping he knows the significance of the engravings on it."

Bobby shook his head, muttering something about stubborn mules or fools, Sam was not sure which. Bobby placed the laptop on Sam's side table and positioned the table in front of Sam. He used the buttons on the bed rail and after a test of trial and error managed to elevate the head of Sam's bed. "Don't know how you are going to check your email. I'm betting the hospital's internet connection is password protected," Bobby predicted.

"It is," Sam replied, his eyes searching the monitor screen. His white, shaking fingers still flew over the keyboard. "Or rather, it was. I'm in."

Bobby lifted the brim of his cap and ran a hand across his forehead. He had to hand it to Sam, he was a crackerjack on the computer. "That was fast."

Sam did not move his eyes from the monitor screen, but flashed a small lopsided grin, very reminiscent of his brother in Bobby's direction. "It was easy." Sam opened his email account and was pleased to see a return response from the professor. He popped open the email and skimmed the reply quickly.

Bobby watched as the grin slowly faded from Sam's face only to be replaced by a frown. "What? What did he say?"

Sam looked up at Bobby with a look that conveyed he was almost surprised anyone was in the room. Bobby held back a chuckle at how quickly Sam could lose himself to the thrill of the hunt for information. "It's ancient Hebrew pictographs," Sam stated simply.

_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

"Sam is in danger," the caretaker replied, turning on his heel and walking away from Dean. His old overcoat billowed behind him as the caretaker walked briskly towards the Impala.

_When did he get so fast? _Dean wondered. "So you've said," Dean called after him and moved to follow. "How about we cover some new ground? How is Sam in danger?"

The old man stopped so abruptly Dean had to side-step quickly to avoid running into him. "Because he was chosen," the caretaker explained patiently.

Dean rubbed his temples and stared at the caretaker through hooded eyes. He was definitely getting a headache talking to the man. "Chosen?" he asked. _Of course he was, _Dean thought. _Supernatural freak magnet, that's my little brother._

"Yes, exactly," the caretaker replied. He picked several leaves out of his wild, white hair and examined one in particular quite closely.

Dean grew frustrated with the old man once again and snapped, "Chosen for what?"

"To help the Necromancer," the caretaker replied with a frown. "That's why we must get Sam and bring him back here. I can help your brother, but we must hurry. According to the wind, we have only a few hours before it is too late."

"According to the…" Dean began in disbelief. He stopped when the caretaker stooped to talk to the dog.

"Bojangles, you stay here. We need to keep an eye on those who attempt to control the dead," the caretaker admonished. Bojangles whipped his tail about and it hit the side of the Impala with several hard whacks.

"Watch the tail," Dean muttered, pushing the dog away from his car.

"Yes, time to go," the caretaker agreed and pointed towards the cemetery. Bojangles ran off in the direction the caretaker pointed and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there he was sure the old guy was planning to take the dog with them. Not that Dean was necessarily allowing the caretaker in the car either.

"We're not going anywhere until you explain exactly what is going on with my brother," Dean stated, stepping between the caretaker and the passenger door to the Impala.

"Oh dear," the caretaker moaned, pointing to something behind Dean. "It appears we won't be going anywhere right away."

Dean spun around quickly and found himself face to face with a ghoul who was crouching on the roof of the Impala. Its claws clicked on the roof as it edged its way closer to Dean. With an inhuman growl the muscles in its haunches bunched and it leapt at Dean, claws extended and teeth bared.

TBC

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AN: I should be earning that cookie soon!

Thanks everyone for reading.

I hope you all had a great Decoration Day weekend!

(That's Memorial Day for all you young whippersnappers out there) BG.

Feedback as always - welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I wish they were mine, but I probably wouldn't take care of the Impala properly and Dean would kill me.

**Thank you: **To the incomparable Wysawyg. It wouldn't be the same without you…especially since I lifted a line from you…okay, maybe two. You'll know when you get to them. (c:

To Heather03nmg for technical assistance and to Phoenix for being a great listener.

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"_We're not going anywhere until you explain exactly what is going on with my brother," Dean stated, stepping between the caretaker and the passenger door to the Impala._

"_Oh dear," the caretaker moaned, pointing to something behind Dean. "It appears we won't be going anywhere right away."_

_Dean spun around quickly and found himself face to face with a ghoul who was crouching on the roof of the Impala. Its claws clicked on the roof as it edged its way closer to Dean. With an inhuman growl the muscles in its haunches bunched and it leapt at Dean, claws extended and teeth bared._

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_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery_

Dean twisted sharply as the weight of the ghoul connected solidly with his shoulder. He fell to the ground and rolled quickly to his feet. The ghoul's momentum had carried it past him and it was now circling back around. Dean could feel the blood trickling down his arm and into the crook of his elbow as he reached for the knife safely tucked in his inside jacket pocket. He realized, as he turned to face the ghoul that his right arm was not going to hold up to a battle of strength. It was a good thing his dad had taught him how to fight with both.

"Be careful, they're fast," the caretaker warned, waggling a finger at Dean.

"Would you get in the damn car?" Dean snapped, opening the passenger door for the thin, old man.

"I could help," the caretaker offered, moving to stand between Dean and the ghoul.

"You can help by staying out of my way," Dean commanded. "Now, get in the car!"

The little man jumped at Dean's tone and dove into the passenger seat. Dean slammed the door shut and was broadsided by the ghoul knocking him into the side of the Impala. The force of the collision caused Dean's shoulder to hit the passenger door followed quickly by his head impacting the window with a sickening crack.

Dean moaned as he steadied himself by resting his hand on the car. He noticed the crack in the passenger window and muttered, "Son of a…" Dean was hit again by the ghoul, knocking him once more against the Impala causing the fractured window to spider web outward in a spiraling loop.

Shaking off the disorientation of yet another knock to the head, Dean switched the knife from his right hand to his left and frantically scanned the area for the creature. A blurred shadow to his left had Dean reacting before he could fully register what he was counter-attacking. He swung his arm in a wide arc neatly slicing through the ghoul's neck in one smooth action.

The ghoul's spongy flesh made a wet sucking sound as the long blade sliced through it. Its head did not immediately detach, but sat for a moment as if still connected to its host. Its unseeing eyes wide and mouth open in a silent howl, before it dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

The head landed with a splash in a dirty puddle spraying droplets of mud on Dean's boots. The body followed the head only seconds later, but by then Dean was already safely on the other side of the Impala and slipping into the seat. He slammed the door shut and gunned the engine. It was then Dean noticed the caretaker was no longer in the car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel in frustration wincing as his shoulder reminded him of his poor choice. Pressing his foot to the accelerator he drove off kicking up gravel. It was time to go get Sam.

_Monroe Family Mausoleum_

Ezra Umholtz leafed slowly through a tattered, worn grimoire searching for the proper ritual. Everything needed to be perfect before the final chosen one arrived. He heard the scratchy sound of shuffling feet behind him, but he did not deign to acknowledge the other's presence just yet. _Why could they not understand the simplest of instructions?_ He needed time to prepare and there was precious little time left to do so.

Finally and with great reluctance he spoke. "Why do you disturb me?" he asked coldly.

"The protector, he has left the grounds again," the timid voice behind him replied. "And another one of your pets is dead."

Ezra sighed loudly. "While that is troublesome it is hardly worth disturbing my preparations for. The protector will return and when he does he will have the chosen one with him."

"They have called in another," the voice whispered, almost afraid to be heard.

"Is he a threat?" Ezra asked, his voice showing interest in the other for the first time.

"No one is a threat to you," the other responded with the proper words.

"Let us make certain of that, shall we?" Ezra replied, turning to face the black-robed man behind him. "My newest addition should be ready for his first assignment." He turned back towards the altar and continued to leaf through the book. He listened as the feet shuffled away. "Oh and see to it that I am not disturbed again," he commanded.

"Of course," the small reply came before the heavy marble door closed once more.

_Allamakee County Hospital_

Bobby paced in front of the door to Sam's room. He had been evicted from it no more than fifteen minutes ago when Sam's doctor had been summoned by the head nurse. When Sam had awakened the second time since Dean's absence he was having trouble breathing and he was sweating profusely. Bobby had called for the nurse immediately. Sam was not going to come to harm on his watch.

Jean had arrived in a flurry of activity, announcing Sam's temperature was up again to 102.6. She had left mumbling something about fetching the doctor. When Jean and the doctor arrived Bobby heard her tell him the patient was febrile and diaphoretic as well as suffering from tachypnea. That was when he'd been told in no uncertain terms to leave the room.

Bobby had considered protesting. Dean would expect him to stay with Sam. However, he was not truly family and he knew they could not afford to draw attention to themselves. He had left the room, but he was not about to go any further than the doorway. Bobby was debating on whether or not to barge back in when Jean appeared.

"You can go back in," Jean informed him. "The doctor has ordered some tests. We've upped Sam's oxygen mix and he's breathing easier."

"What does the doctor think is wrong?" Bobby asked gruffly.

"That's really for the doctor to explain to Sam and his brother," Jean replied in a tone that left no room for argument. She walked off without a backwards glance and Bobby slipped back into the room.

"We'll know more when the tests come back," Dr. Chadwick was explaining to Sam. "Right now, I'd say you're battling an infection, but I really can't be certain until I see the test results."

Sam wasted not a breath on answering, but simply nodded his head in understanding. He tried to focus on what the doctor was saying, but it took entirely too much effort. When he realized he was having trouble comprehending was when the fear took over. He looked over at the man who had entered the room. Sam knew he knew who the man was, but putting a name to him seemed an insurmountable task.

"Sam, how are you holding up?" Bobby asked. He caught the wild look in Sam's eyes and tried to sound reassuring. He failed miserably.

"I'm fine, Bobby," Sam wheezed breathlessly. Bobby. That was his name.

"Sam, I'll leave you alone with your uncle," Dr. Chadwick stated, turning to leave. "But I'll be back when we have the test results."

"How long do you think that will be?" Bobby asked in a clipped voice and added for good measure, "His brother will be back soon and he's going to want some answers."

"Yes, I'm sure he will," Dr. Chadwick replied. He focused his attention back on Sam and said, "Your brother seems to have built up quite the reputation with the hospital staff."

Sam snorted lightly, the only response he had the energy to make. "Where's Dean?" he managed after a pause, panic edging its way into his voice.

"He's getting some sleep, remember?" Bobby prompted. Sam's behavior concerned him. No matter how poorly he was feeling he would not intentionally blow Dean's cover story.

Sam knitted his brow in confusion. That didn't seem right. The doctor caught Sam's expression and decided to intervene. "Sam is probably a little confused and disoriented right now, partially due to his fever. The test results should be back within the hour. I'm having them rushed at the lab."

Dr. Chadwick started to walk out the door when he was stopped short by Bobby's next question. "If it is an infection, how bad is it? He's been steadily getting worse since I've been here."

The doctor took a deep breath and turned back towards Bobby. "Frankly, the sudden onset of symptoms and the rapid progression do have me concerned. I really can't speculate further without evaluating the test results." When Bobby offered nothing further other than a head bob, Dr. Chadwick took it as a sign of dismissal and quickly left.

Bobby turned his attention back towards Sam. Sam was still pale and sweaty, but his breathing seemed a little easier with the increased oxygen. He was looking about the room with unfocused eyes and Bobby knew that even in his confused state Sam was searching for his brother. "He better get his butt back here soon. This is way beyond my job description," Bobby remarked as Sam closed his eyes. "I don't know how to be Dean for you."

…………………………………………………………..

The Impala skidded to a stop on the third floor of the hospital parking garage. Dean reached across the wheel and shoved the car into Park with his left hand. Blood had continued to run down his arm on the trip back from the cemetery, but Dean had managed to keep it from soiling the interior of his car by pulling his hand into his shirt sleeve and holding it closed with his fingers. He knew he would have to get his shoulder looked at, but right now he was only concerned with getting Sam back to the cemetery.

Dean still was not sure the caretaker was the answer, but he was more afraid not to take Sam to the cemetery. He had tried several times to reach Bobby from the car, but each time he had reached only voicemail. It seemed highly unlikely that Bobby had turned off his cell phone for any reason, although it was possibly he had decided to follow the rules for once. It was also possible Bobby had sprouted wings and was regaling the hospital staff with a little fairy dance, though neither seemed very likely. Dean's imagination had run amok over the thirty minute made twenty, trip back to the hospital from the cemetery.

Hard footfalls pounded down quiet hospital hallways mindless of the disapproving looks they generated. He breezed past the nurses' station and burst into Sam's room. Bobby's stack of books still sat in the windowsill. Sam's shoes still rested in a plastic bag on the floor near the foot of the bed where Dean had deposited them earlier after his search for a cell phone. The only things missing from the room were Sam and Bobby.

Dean dashed back out to the nurses' desk. "Where's my brother?" he demanded. He was greeted by blank stares and questioning looks. "Where is my brother?" Dean asked again, slowly and carefully pausing after each word. "Sam Elden? Where is Sam?"

"Calm down, Mr. Elden," Jean replied from behind him. "Sam is in his room."

"And do you think if he was, I'd be wasting my time out here with you?" Dean asked sharply, turning to face the older nurse. "Sam is not in his room and neither is our uncle."

Jean placed a hand on Dean's arm. "Sam may have been taken down for some tests," she explained. "He is experiencing symptoms of an infection and we are trying to isolate the cause."

"Where would they have taken him?" Dean asked, not acknowledging her statement. It wasn't an infection, Dean was sure of that now.

"Give me a minute to call around and I'll find out," Jean replied, with a small smile. She walked around Dean and stood behind the desk. "We have a pretty modest facility. I shouldn't have too much trouble tracking down Sam."

"Thanks," Dean said, flashing her a genuine in appearance but all too false smile. He drummed his fingers on the desk waiting for answers. He ignored the look of annoyance Jean shot at him. He was impervious to her stern schoolmarmish glares.

After several phone calls Jean had to concede defeat. She looked up at Dean and said, "I'm sorry, no one seems to know where Sam is at the moment."

"You've lost him?" Dean asked angrily.

"No, of course not," Jean replied defensively. She tapped her pen on the open charts in front of her in a steady beat. "We just don't know exactly where he is at the moment and…" Jean huffed in annoyance when Dean turned away from her and shot back down the hall towards Sam's room. If he was not going to stick around for her explanation she was not going to trouble herself over him.

………………………………………………………………

Sam sat huddled in the dark. The strong smell of antiseptics, ammonia and bleach filled the air aggravating his dry nasal passages. The cleaning agents made it harder to breathe and he was so cold. He wrapped the cotton blanket around him with shaking arms and hugged his knees. He fought against the shivers that wracked his body sending fresh shoots of pain across his chest and stomach. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.

Bobby had cautioned him to remain quiet and to stay hidden no matter what happened. Sam was not sure what Bobby was so concerned about, but he would do what Bobby had asked him to do. He lacked the strength to do much else anyway. He knew he would be hard pressed to defend himself despite the knife he still clutched in one hand.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside his door. Sam could see the shadow of a passing figure through the slats in the vent at the bottom of the door that let sound and light into the small confines of the closet. Who it was Sam did not know, so he concentrated on quieting his breathing, but he had to fight hard to get enough air, despite the portable oxygen tank Bobby had dragged in here. Wherever Bobby had gone, Sam hoped he came back soon.

……………………………………………………………………

"Dean, I'm glad I ran into you," Dr. Chadwick said, stopping Dean in the hall. "I need to talk to you about Sam's condition."

"Nurse Ratched already filled me in. She said you think Sam has an infection," Dean said barely pausing long enough to look the doctor in the eye.

"I did," Dr. Chadwick replied, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.

The past tense statement did not elude Dean. "What do you mean, did?" he asked, shrugging off the doctor's gentle grip. He was thankful Chadwick had not grabbed his other shoulder or he would have had a whole other round of questions to field.

Dr. Chadwick pulled back his hand and explained, "His white blood cell count is normal. With an infection, we would expect it to be much higher especially with how pronounced his symptoms are. His hemoglobin and hematocrit tests came back irregular, but not markedly so and that is easily explained by the recent blood loss and transfusions. Strangely none of that explains an apparent decrease in renal function."

The perplexed look on Dr. Chadwick's face angered Dean. "So, essentially what you're telling me is you don't know what's wrong with Sam?" Dean asked.

"We don't know yet," Dr. Chadwick corrected.

"Do you at least know where he is?" Dean asked, his annoyance growing.

"Sam should be in his room," Dr. Chadwick replied. "I didn't schedule him for any tests that would have required him to be moved. Did you check with the nurses? They may have been forced to do a room change."

"Yes, I did check with the nurses and they seemed to think he was off having tests done. His stuff's still in his room, it's Sam that is missing," Dean explained with what he felt was a great deal of patience considering the circumstances.

Dr. Chadwick took an involuntary step backwards at the sight of Dean's clenched fists. While he did not honestly believe the man in front of him would hit anyone unless it was necessary, he was a little afraid of what Dean would consider it necessary to fight for and he was beginning to fully understand Sam was on that list. "I'll check with the nurses again," Dr. Chadwick offered. "Wait here."

"Like hell," Dean murmured to Dr. Chadwick's back and headed off to search for Sam and Bobby.

……………………………………………………………

Bobby moved slowly down the stairwell checking carefully in the hidden alcoves at the bottom of each flight. He was sure he had seen the creature enter the stairwell and so far at each flight he had found the door back into the hospital to be locked. That meant that somewhere between here and the ground floor he was sure to run into the ghoulish creature.

The knife in Bobby's hand was one of his favorites. A long, sharp machete he had picked up from an antique dealer at the Snickersnee Shack. The handle of polished wood was the perfect heft and strength for the blade-length. Bobby appreciated fine workmanship in the tools of his trade from the perfect machete for hunting to the perfect wrench for removing an air filter.

Shadowy movement on Bobby's right caught his attention and he paused on the stairs. He stood frozen with one foot hovering above the step and one hand resting on the railing. He had patience and whatever this thing was it had not demonstrated a great deal of patience or intelligence.

Bobby did not have to wait long. The ghoul moved out from under the stairs and made a mad dash towards him. He could see the wild gleam in its eyes and the saliva dripping from its teeth as it charged. Bobby raised the machete high and swung.

…………………………………………………………..

Dean tapped his hand impatiently on his leg waiting for the elevator. The stairs may have been quicker, but he knew Bobby would not be able to get Sam down the stairs so it was pointless to head that direction. At least with the elevator there was a random chance he would bump into them.

He had checked and Bobby's truck was still in the garage so Dean knew Bobby and Sam were still here somewhere. He was also convinced Bobby had either moved Sam or someone had forced them both to leave. Neither option boded well for their current situation. If it was the former option that meant Sam was in more danger from something than he was from his injuries and if it was the latter option there was no telling what the reasons were.

At this point Dean was assuming they were missing because something or someone had made Bobby think they were in danger. If he knew Bobby, Bobby would have stashed Sam somewhere relatively safe and then gone after whatever it was. Strategically, it made the most sense even if Dean would not have done it that way himself.

The question remained, where was somewhere relatively safe when Sam's own hospital room had proven not to be? It would have to be close to Sam's room to avoid being detected, but somewhere not too many people would be in and out of all day. Preferably it should be locked, limiting the chance of being discovered even more as the lock would be no problem for Bobby when he returned.

Dean mentally traversed the hall near Sam's room on the elevator trip back up to the third floor. The nurses' station was on the west side, Sam's room three doors south from there on the east side. Bobby would not have taken Sam towards the nurses' desk so Dean walked further down the hall in his mind. Two more rooms on the west, one of the east, a unisex bathroom and fire extinguisher on the east.

When the elevator doors opened again, Dean took off at a fast clip. There was a utility closet not four doors down from Sam's room.

……………………………………………………………

Sam struggled to stay conscious. Bobby had drilled into him the importance of staying awake. Sam wiped his sweaty hand off on the cotton blanket and renewed his tenuous grip on the knife. He could no longer hold himself upright and lay down on the cold tile floor. He would stay awake, but he could no longer fight.

Footsteps sounded outside his door again and Sam tried to focus on the shadows through the vent. When the door opened, a shaft of light pierced Sam's eyes and he blinked owlishly at the figure before him. "Dean?" he whispered.

"Sorry, Sam," the deep voice above him spoke. "Dean's not here right now."

Sam felt hands lifting him and moving him into a chair. The knife was gently removed from his hand and the blanket tucked in around him. He heard the oxygen tank being secured to the chair and when the door was opened again, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of florescent lighting.

"Hold on Sam," the voice reassured him, pushing the chair forward. "Let's get you out of here."

Sam struggled to focus and to identify the man behind the voice, but his fevered brain refused to make the connection.

………………………………………………………

Dean rounded the corner in time to see Bobby's quickly retreating form disappearing around the corner at the other end of the corridor. He picked up the pace and rushed to intercept him. Dean would have been amused by the sight before him had the circumstances not been so dire. Bobby was pushing Sam in a wheelchair with one hand as the other arm was burdened with Bobby's stack of books. The arm that was pushing the chair had Sam's messenger bag thrown over a shoulder. The plastic bag of shoes was wrapped around the handle of the wheelchair.

"Bobby," Dean called softly once he was within earshot.

Bobby stopped dead in his tracks and whirled around to face Dean. "Keep your eyes sharp," he cautioned by way of greeting. "I've already killed one of those damn things and I don't know how many there are out there. I didn't see any signs of more than one, but you never can tell. I can tell you this much, Sam is right. That creature was definitely a ghoul of some kind."

Dean nodded and remarked, "We need to get Sam out of here." He tried to get a good look at Sam, but Bobby was steadfastly in his way. He finally bumped Bobby none-to-gently to the side and knelt down beside Sam. Dean took in the pale, waxen complexion and shallow breathing. "Sammy?" Dean placed a hand on Sam's arm hoping to garner a reaction from his brother. Sam furrowed his brow, but otherwise did not respond.

"Come on, Dean," Bobby said at last nudging Dean with his boot. "You were right, we need to get Sam out of here and the longer we are in the hall, the greater the chance of being discovered."

Dean stood up quickly and assumed control of the wheelchair. "We're going to have to move fast," Dean stated, starting down the hall. "According to the caretaker at the cemetery Sam was chosen by the Necromancer for something and Sam is…I think Sam is dying," Dean choked out.

Bobby remained silent. His brief research had revealed the same thing. What he was lacking was an answer to the unspoken question. How were they going to save Sam?

Getting Sam out of the hospital and into the parking garage was disturbingly easy considering Sam did not look like someone who should be leaving the hospital. They had done their best to avoid anyone, but those they did meet did not question why they were pushing a very obviously ill man down the hospital corridors. Dean wondered how many people took their family members out for strolls in the halls long after all hope for recovery had past. That would explain the lack of reaction from the hospital staff.

"I'm going to need your help getting him into the back seat," Dean stated opening the rear doors to the Impala. He knew he could and had managed to wrestle Sam's lanky and unconscious form into the car himself before, but he could not guarantee he could do it now without hurting Sam.

Bobby had pulled Sam off the floor in the utility closet and he knew how heavy that boy was despite how lean he appeared to be. Bobby opened the opposite door and leaned through the Impala to guide Sam across the rear seat. Sam moaned once, but did not awaken. They had to bend his knees up towards his waist to fit his long his legs into the seat.

Dean removed his jacket and bunched it up under Sam's head as a makeshift pillow. Reaching through to the front seat he opened the glove box and pulled out a roll of duct tape. Three large strips of tape later, Dean had the oxygen tank secured to the rear seat. Sam was going to be busy getting adhesive residue off the leather interior later. Dean refused to believe for even a moment that Sam would not be around later to do so. He wrapped the stolen blankets around Sam and gently closed the rear door at Sam's feet.

"Keys," Bobby stated holding out his hand in a tone that left no room for argument.

"My car," Dean replied, not relinquishing the keys. "We need to get to the cemetery quickly. I know the road and I know my car."

"And despite what you seem to think, I know you," Bobby replied. "Do you even realize you have a concussion? That shoulder of yours," Bobby continued nodding his head towards Dean's right shoulder. "Is bleeding pretty bad. Now, I ain't gonna be stupid enough to suggest we fix that right now, but you aren't driving."

"It's only a flesh wound," Dean quoted with a horrible British accent. He tossed Bobby the keys with his left hand.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and huffed, "What? You're kidding me with this?"

"But, I'm letting you drive," Dean quipped climbing into the passenger seat and turning around to the rear seat to face Sam. "Just try to keep it at sixty will ya?"

Bobby closed the rear door near Sam's head and slid in behind the wheel. "I'll try, but it's gonna be hard to drive that slow." He backed carefully out of the parking spot and headed out.

Dean tried sitting in the front seat twisted around and facing Sam, but in the end he just felt too far away, as if the seat itself was too much of a barrier between him and his brother. He opted instead to sit on the axel well on the floor in the rear seat, his legs bent and crammed into the floor space beside Sam. If Bobby had any thoughts on Dean choosing to ride on the floor in the back seat he did not comment.

Sam moaned and furrowed his brow. "Hey, are you awake, Sam?" Dean asked, though he was not expecting a response.

"Dean?" Sam asked so quietly Dean barely heard him over the road noise.

"Sam?" Dean asked again. He leaned forward and brushed Sam's wet bangs off his forehead. Sam was burning up.

Sam's eyes slowly opened and roamed the interior of the Impala before settling on Dean. "Where are we going?" he asked softly, awareness shining in his eyes.

"To get help for you," Dean replied. He rested a hand on Sam's arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You're going to be okay, Sammy. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"I know," Sam whispered, trust reflecting in his eyes before they fluttered closed again.

"Hey, are you still with me, Sam?" Dean asked, giving Sam a gentle shake. Sam did not respond, not a moan not even an eye twitch. "Bobby?"

"Yeah?" Bobby asked, looking at Dean's urgent face through the rearview mirror.

"Drive faster."

_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Caretaker Residence_

The caretaker finished his final preparations for the ritual. He knew Dean was on his way back here and this time he had Sam in tow. He had drawn the appropriate symbols of healing on the long, wooden table and purified the area with sage. The olive oil, lavender and many assorted herbs were next to the table waiting for the ceremony to begin. Candles burned brightly in the small room and the chimes in the doorway tinkled in the slight breeze. All that was needed was Sam.

Gravel crunched and doors slammed announcing the arrival of the Winchesters plus one. The caretaker grabbed a small lantern and scurried out to lead Dean to the correct place. Dean and the other man were carefully carrying Sam along the uneven ground. The wind picked up briefly and the caretaker tilted his head, listening. Singer.

"This way, this way," the caretaker urged them. He waved his hand, beckoning them closer to his home. "Hurry."

Dean looked up at the caretaker and frowned. He was not entirely sure he could trust the slippery little man, but at this point he did not have much of a choice. The trip from the hospital to the cemetery seemed to take an eternity. After Sam lapsed into unconsciousness, he had watched Sam's breathing became even shallower and labored and his face impossibly more pale. Sam no longer responded in any meaningful way to Dean's pleas.

Now he was carrying his little brother into the dilapidated home of a cemetery caretaker looking for a miracle cure. The medical professionals could not help Sam; they were not able find anything wrong with him other than the obvious symptoms, but not the cause.

Dean and Bobby laid Sam on the wooden table and Dean carefully positioned Sam's arms and legs. He set the oxygen tank under the table and stepped away from Sam only far enough to allow the caretaker access to his brother. He stood at Sam's head watching every move the caretaker made.

The wizened man smiled at Dean and started chanting while he worked. Dean listened carefully. "And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live," the caretaker intoned.

The caretaker repeated the incantation as he cut open Sam's hospital gown from his neck to his waist, laying bare his chest and stomach and exposing the many staples used to repair the lacerations from the ghoul. He poured olive oil on Sam's stomach and chest, drawing a symbol in oil on Sam's body.

He repeated the incantation a third time when he sprinkled the herbs over the oil. "And when I passed by thee and saw thee polluted in thine own blood, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live; yea, I said unto thee when thou wast in thy blood, Live."

Dean watched the ceremony with trepidation and little hope. It certainly seemed like a very simple ritual that was designed to offer solace for the family, but little help for the sick. As the incantation drew to a close for the third time, Sam drew in a long shuddering breath and then – nothing. His chest was no longer moving.

Dean was not sure how it was that he was still standing. He knew he wasn't breathing and that his heart wasn't pumping any blood. He had felt the blood rush from his face and his chest, pooling in his useless hands and wooden feet. He could not possibly be breathing; his heart could not possibly be beating. That was why it surprised him that he could hear the echo of his heartbeat resounding in his ears and pounding in his brain. That was why he could no longer hear anyone around him and why the world took on a watery, blurry appearance. That was why he did not even hear the whispered prayer uttered from his own lips.

"Come on, Sammy, breathe."

TBC

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AN: Don't hurt me – it's not over yet, folks!

The early chapter is courtesy of an extra floater holiday at work. (c:

As always – feedback welcome!


	9. Chapter 9

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I am not now, nor will I ever be, affiliated with the CW, Eric Kripke or any of the other fine folks at Supernatural. Bummer deal.

**Thank you: **To Wysawyg for not letting me wimp out on the angst, your help is invaluable.

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_Dean watched the ceremony with trepidation and little hope. It certainly seemed like a very simple ritual that was designed to offer solace for the family, but little help for the sick. As the incantation drew to a close for the third time, Sam drew in a long shuddering breath and then – nothing. His chest was no longer moving._

_Dean was not sure how it was that he was still standing. He knew he wasn't breathing and that his heart wasn't pumping any blood. He had felt the blood rush from his face and his chest, pooling in his useless hands and wooden feet. He could not possibly be breathing; his heart could not possibly be beating. That was why it surprised him that he could hear the echo of his heartbeat resounding in his ears and pounding in his brain. That was why he could no longer hear anyone around him and why the world took on a watery, blurry appearance. That was why he did not even hear the whispered prayer uttered from his own lips. _

"_Come on, Sammy, breathe."_

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_Whispered voices beckoned him down the corridor. The corridor was dark and unfamiliar, but Sam was not afraid. He knew who was at the end of the corridor and he was looking forward to seeing them again. He wondered if that meant he would not see Dean for awhile, but when he turned back around he found the corridor behind him was no longer there. There was only black, swirling mist and silence._

_He continued walking towards the end of the corridor. Light now shone through the darkness sending shafts of illumination through the closed door in front of him. He could hear the voices louder now and knew he would find the door unlocked when he approached. _

_Sam turned the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. He closed his eyes against the intense and sudden onslaught of light. After his eyes adjusted to the light Sam opened them, smiled and started to walk through the door when it abruptly slammed closed and he felt himself being pulled quickly backwards through the corridor._

Sound came rushing back when Dean saw Sam's chest expand with life. It hit him with such force he staggered under the sheer volume of it. "Dean!" Bobby yelled, his face looming in front of Dean's and his fingers gripping Dean's arms painfully.

Dean did not tear his gaze from Sam. The shallow but beautiful rhythmic breathing of his little brother mesmerized him as he stood silently watching. "Dean!" Bobby shouted again. This time the sound penetrated Dean's awareness and he spared Bobby a quick glance. Hands tried to steer him away from his vantage spot, but Dean resolutely stood his ground.

A chair hit the back of his legs and he felt a push on his shoulders urging him to sit down. "Is he okay, really?" Dean asked no one in particular. He leaned forward and grasped Sam's arm. It was still very warm from fever.

"He is no longer dying," the caretaker replied cryptically, patting Dean on the shoulder. "But he still needs to fight to live."

Dean did not even look up at Bobby when he felt his shirt cut open. "You couldn't just ask me to take it off?" Dean grumbled.

"It's a total loss, trust me," Bobby replied, not pausing in his task.

"What do you mean he still needs to fight to live?" Dean asked. He scanned Sam's face hoping for some sort of reaction. "Is he still in danger?"

"Not from death," the caretaker replied. "Only from not living."

Dean growled deep in his chest and the caretaker stumbled backwards. Even Bobby stopped poking Dean's shoulder and eyed him warily. "Would you stop speaking in riddles like some damn Chinese fortune cookie and tell me what is happening with Sam?" Dean snapped.

"Death is no longer coming for Sam," the caretaker explained. "But your brother was dying and he needs time to fight the poison in his blood and for his body to repair itself and be whole again."

Bobby sighed and clapped his hand down on Dean's shoulder as he started to rise, forcing him to remain seated. Dean groaned lightly. "Dean, he's just sayin' Sam needs some time to get better. Now sit still and let me stitch you up," Bobby explained.

"Yes, yes, that's exactly it," the caretaker agreed bobbing his head. "But he was very close to death; he could hear it calling him. It is going to take quite awhile, if it happens at all."

Dean grunted when Bobby flushed the cuts on his shoulder. "Quite awhile? If it happens? Is he going to be okay soon, or should we be finding medical supplies?" Dean asked through gritted teeth.

"It is impossible to say," the caretaker replied moving about the table and stepping into the small space between the brothers, temporarily obscuring Dean's view.

Dean moved to get up a second time and Bobby pushed him down again. "You mind, movin'?" Bobby asked. "You're blocking the view." He bobbed his head in Sam's general direction and then back to Dean.

"Oh," the little man replied, moving out of the line of sight. He tilted his head to the side and gave Dean an appraising look. "You are this one's protector?"

"I'm his brother, yeah," Dean replied, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "We look out for each other."

"But you, you are the oldest?" the caretaker asked.

"Ow! Yeah," Dean replied, temporarily tearing his gaze from Sam to glare at Bobby.

"Sorry," Bobby murmured insincerely, pulling through another stitch.

"Oh dear," the caretaker moaned. He flitted around the table, fiddling with the items around Sam and arranging them in a precise order. "Oh dear."

"What?" Dean asked, grumpily. He was about two seconds from tearing the blasted needle out of Bobby's hand and poking the strange caretaker in the eye with it.

"I knew you were brothers," the caretaker said moving closer to Dean again. "I just didn't realize how close you were to matching what he is looking for."

Dean rolled his eyes. He really was too tired for this. "You done there?" Dean asked, looking up at Bobby. "I'd like to get Sam moved to a bed."

"No!" the caretaker shouted.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You mind explaining why?" he asked.

"Sam should stay in the area of healing until he is stronger," the old man stuttered. "He is safer there and he will heal faster."

Dean stood up and staggered towards the only bed in the one room abode. He pulled the blankets off the bed and grabbed the pillow. Stalking back to the table he placed the pillow under Sam's head and covered him up to his waist with the blankets. Dean looked up at the caretaker when he put his hand over Dean's preventing him from pulling the blankets up any further. "Sam needs to be kept warm to prevent shock and to help him stay comfortable so he'll rest and heal," Dean said.

"You need to leave the oil undisturbed until he is stronger," the caretaker explained. He moved towards the small stove and poured boiling water into three tea cups. "We will keep him warm with heated rice bags. When he does awaken, I have a special tea for him. It is important you are both ready when the time comes."

"When the time comes for what?" Bobby asked, walking up beside Dean and pulling out a pair of scissors. In one quick movement he snipped the thread and retrieved his dangling needle from Dean's shoulder. Slapping a bandage over the top he pressed down all four pieces of tape securing it in place.

"I'm not the only one who speaks to the dead," the caretaker moaned. "The Necromancer does too. He must know. I'm sure he knows." He handed Dean a cup of the tea and moved back to the oven. He pulled three cloth bags out of the oven and juggled them to keep the heat from burning his hands. He placed them around Sam's head and chest.

Dean drained the cup of tea and sat back down in the chair near Sam. He was so tired and this game of, 'riddle me this, riddle me that,' the caretaker seemed hell bent on playing was wearing. "Know what?"

"Excuse me?" the caretaker asked from his position near the stove. He was pouring Dean another glass of tea.

"The Necromancer knows what?" Dean asked, blinking his eyes rapidly to keep them open. Wild, white hair appeared in his vision and Dean swatted at the wiry strands. Voices swirled in vibrant color and sound slowed and lengthened until individual words could no longer be distinguished. He looked up at Bobby's blurry form and tried to focus his thoughts. Someone needed to watch out for Sam and he was afraid he would not be able to.

"I got it covered, Dean," Bobby replied, reading the naked need on Dean's face. "Don't worry about Sam."

Something of what he said must have made it through to Dean despite the fact his eyes looked unfocused and glassy before they closed. Dean slumped forward and Bobby caught him by the chest, holding him in place on the chair.

"Did you drug his tea with something?" Bobby demanded angrily, grasping Dean under his good arm and steering him drunkenly towards the rumpled bed.

"He needs rest," the caretaker replied unapologetically. His blue eyes flicked between Dean and Sam. "They both do."

"You're right, but I ain't taking the heat for you when Dean finds out you drugged his tea," Bobby replied, his tone softening a tad.

The caretaker's eyes widened at the thought before he turned away from Bobby and placed three more rice bags into the oven.

_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Monroe Family Mausoleum_

The Necromancer howled in frustration and slammed his fist onto the altar. He had been so close, so very close to success. He had planned for this and worked for this for so long. The amulet had been reclaimed after the debacle that had caused it to fall into the hands of the chosen one. The attempts at the hospital had been thwarted, but in the end he knew he would be successful. Even when the protector arrived and returned the chosen one to the cemetery, he believed victory would be his.

Now, however, the chosen one had been ripped from him at the last moment. He could still feel the residual trail left by the other in his wake. Even now it led him directly to the chosen one, if only he could follow it to the source. But something was blocking his efforts and preventing him from gaining access to the chosen one.

He considered himself a patient man, a true spider carefully spinning a meticulous web in which to catch the perfect prey. What he had not counted on was how far the protector would go to save the other. He had not realized the power he hoped to bottle for his own consumption was too strong to be captured so easily. It was not a mistake he would make again.

_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Caretaker Residence_

Dean crawled out of his subconscious and back to awareness as the sun was setting. He blinked lazily out the window from his spot on the bed trying to clear his muzzy mind. The time of day seemed wrong and in a moment of lucidity Dean recalled the events leading up to his sudden departure with reality.

He sat up quickly and scanned the room for any sign of the caretaker. He instantly regretted the action as his stomach rebelled and rumbled loudly in protest. He felt light-headed and the room spun wickedly out of control. He supported the weight of his head in his hands and breathed deeply willing the world to right itself. It was just his luck, a hangover without the fun that came the night before.

"You okay?" he heard Bobby ask. Dean lifted his head and this time managed to keep everything in the room in its rightful place. He did not immediately see Bobby, but finally spotted him wedged in between the stove and the back counter on the other side of Sam.

Dean did not answer, but pushed himself to a standing position on unsteady legs. He waited until he suppressed the shaking in his limbs before attempting the fifteen foot trip to the table. He rested his hands on the table to balance him and took a good look at Sam.

Sam had regained a small portion of color in his face. He seemed to be breathing easily and deeply even though someone had removed the nasal canula. "He hasn't been awake yet," Bobby remarked from his chair.

Dean looked over at Bobby. "How long?" he asked simply.

"Nearly ten hours," Bobby supplied. "If you're able to take over here, I'll liberate some medical supplies from town. The charms and herbal satchels hung around here should ward off anything that may come around."

Dean nodded and flashed Bobby a brief look of gratitude. "Thanks." Dean jutted his chin in the direction of a stack of books balanced precariously on the edge of the counter. "Did you find anything?"

"Sam found out the markings on the amulet were ancient Hebrew pictographs. The symbols for life on one side and death on the other," Bobby answered.

"Hebrew? That's different," Dean remarked. He took a seat in his former chair and straightened Sam's blankets as best as he could from that position.

"This is old time necromancy," Bobby said. "We're talking old enough to be hinted at in the Old Testament, King Solomon and the witch of Endor old."

Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn't sure what he believed anymore, but Bobby seemed to be headed the right way for a lightning bolt to strike him. "Isn't necromancy considered demonic in origin?" he asked finally.

"Sure - now," Bobby agreed. "But in its earliest incarnation it was considered a valid way to talk to the dead and to gain wisdom from the dead. It was later the belief switched to demonic forces having a hand in it and even later that a spirit could be forcibly fixed in the body of someone who had recently died." Bobby stood up and walked over towards Dean on the opposite side of the table.

Dean did not look up as Bobby's shadow fell across Sam, but asked, "Did you have anything to do with spiking my tea?" The words were calm and precise, a sure sign that Dean was upset.

"Nope," Bobby replied. "But I can't say I was entirely against it either."

Dean did look up now and shoot angry green sparks in Bobby's direction. "I can't watch out for him if I'm drugged to the gills, Bobby."

"Can't disagree with you there," Bobby replied. "Course, you can't watch out for him if you collapse from injuries or exhaustion either. I'm here to help share that load."

"He's mine to protect. He's my brother," Dean stated, giving Sam's arm a gentle squeeze.

"Dean, sharing the load doesn't make it any less yours, it just makes it lighter," Bobby replied. Sometimes Bobby was chock full of homespun wisdom. Other times he was chock full of bullshit. It seemed to even out over a period of time.

"Whatever, Bobby," Dean grumbled, managing to sound quite a lot like Sam. He brushed Sam's too long bangs off his forehead and rested his hand there for a bit. His temperature was still warm, but it was not radiating heat as it had in the Impala on the trip over.

Sam stirred under the gentle pressure of Dean's hand on his forehead. "Sammy?" Dean asked, removing his hand. "Come on, Sam open your eyes for me."

Dean was rewarded with the sight of Sam's expressive hazel eyes slowly opening and turning their gaze on him. Sam silently mouthed Dean's name and his eyes filled with fear. "It's okay," Dean said. "You're gonna be okay. You're just having a little trouble right now because you were hurt. You remember, don't you?"

Relief flooded Sam's eyes and he nodded almost imperceptibly. He struggled weakly to sit up, but Dean easily held him in place. "Sam, lie still," Dean commanded. He softened his tone and asked, "Do you think you could drink something?"

Sam made a face. He certainly did not feel up to drinking anything. He felt different somehow, not bad or sick, just different. It took him a moment to place the feeling. The pit in his stomach was gone. Sam moved his hand to his stomach and pulled it away with a surprised look on his face. He held it up for Dean, questioning the substance on his hand and stomach.

"Olive oil and herbs," Dean replied at the look of confusion on Sam's face. Dean chuckled at the disgusted look on Sam's face. "I think he got the cure out of a Betsy Cooker book," Dean said, trying to make light of the situation to put Sam at ease.

"That's Betty Crocker, Mr. Stewart," Bobby quipped. He looked down at Sam and added, "Let's get you sitting up a little more." Bobby bunched up one of Sam's blankets and Dean carefully lifted Sam's torso so Bobby could slip the blanket under Sam.

Dean rearranged the pillow and stepped back to evaluate their handiwork. Sam was slightly inclined on the table, enough to allow him to drink, but not so much that it would pull on his staples. Sam was gripping the table and it was obvious the movement had hurt him despite how careful they had been. "I'm going to get you something to drink and Bobby is headed to town," Dean stated both to explain the situation to Sam and to effectively dismiss Bobby.

Taking his cue, Bobby said, "I'm going to stop and get supplies, if you think of anything other than the obvious, call me." Bobby started to walk out the door when he called over his shoulder, "I left my machete on the counter for you. Take care of it. It's my favorite."

"Bobby!" Dean called to the empty doorway. "Take care of her and we'll consider it even!"

Bobby chuckled on his way to the car.

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The grizzle-haired caretaker knelt down next to the black lab engaged in conversation. "Bojangles, those boys are in danger from that group of miscreants. I want you to stay here and guard the house. I'll be back," the caretaker instructed. The lab whined sadly and tapped the caretaker's knee with his forepaw several times. "No, stay here," the caretaker insisted. "I'll be back soon."

Bojangles moped back to the house and the caretaker walked off towards his herb garden. The younger boy would definitely need a pain relieving and healing tea. They would also need more satchels of herbal protection for the entry points into his home. He scurried off as fast as he could to the garden. His cupboard was terribly under stocked for necromantic invasion emergencies.

The caretaker quickly picked the herbs he needed for the tea and the satchels and headed back to the house. He moved stealthily through the brush and trees, not pausing until he was almost to his home. He pulled up short and squinted through the lengthening shadows of dusk. The others were here. He was too late.

………………………………………………………

Dean steeped the tea that had been clearly labeled with block letters, 'FOR SAM.' He was distrustful of the tea labeled, 'FOR DEAN' after his Rip Van Winkle impersonation earlier today and opted instead for a glass of straight tap water. Once the tea was sufficiently cooled he took a seat in the chair near Sam.

"Hey, Sam, wake up," Dean urged, gently shaking his little brother.

Sam aroused easily which led Dean to believe he had only been resting and had not truly fallen asleep. "Drink up, pup," Dean teased with words he used on Sam when he was small. He tipped the cup slowly allowing Sam to drink at his own speed.

Sam frowned over the brim of the cup. He was annoyed with his dependence on Dean and frustrated by his inability to relay words from his brain to his mouth. He drank slowly and stopped several times as his stomach protested the introduction of liquids after remaining empty for so long. Sam could feel his eyes growing heavy and the pain that wracked his body lessened considerably.

Dean was putting the cup into the sink when the first thud against the door occurred. At first, Dean thought it was the caretaker or that Bobby had somehow made it back without Dean hearing the Impala, but when the thud happened again, Dean suspected the truth.

The next knock was against the wall by the bed and Dean saw the boards bend inwards before snapping back to their original position. One of the satchels strung along the walls fell off onto the bed and another knock against the wall shook the dishes in the kitchen.

Glass shattering in the bathroom catapulted Dean into action. He grabbed the machete from the counter and the salt shaker from the back of the stove. Dean did not think salt would repel a ghoul, but at this point he would try anything to keep Sam safe.

He was laying a circle of salt around the table when Sam grabbed his arm. Dean read the emotions that moved through Sam's eyes and face. He was scared and confused. No doubt in his semi-drugged state he felt he could not defend himself.

Sam was scared. He knew Dean would protect him and he had complete faith in his brother to do so. He also knew that Dean would put himself between Sam and the evil trying to break in and that he stood a very good chance of getting hurt. Dean seemed to collect knocks to the head the way some people collected state quarters. Sam knew one day even Dean's hard head would not withstand the blow.

"I got it covered, Sam," Dean reassured him. "Trust me." He pulled Sam's fingers loose from his arm and peered out the kitchen window. He could see the gray, clawed creatures in the small amount of light remaining. There seemed to be only two of them, but they were taking turns running towards the house and smashing into the walls and door testing for weakness.

Another thud on the door sent Dean's last nerve dancing. "That's it," Dean announced. "We're not going to sit around here waiting for them to come and get us." He walked over to the kitchen drawers and started pulling them out and slamming them closed searching. Finally, he pulled an Ulu knife out of the drawer. It wasn't ideal at all, but he was not leaving Sam completely defenseless either.

"Here," Dean said, placing the handle of the knife in Sam's palm. "You're not going to need it," he reassured him making eye contact with Sam and willing him to believe. Sam nodded and Dean turned back to the door. "Are you ready?" he asked looking back at Sam. Sam nodded again and Dean swung the door open and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

The two ghouls rushed together towards Dean within seconds. One ran at Dean from behind a rose bush. It swooped in close with rose petals flying, but made the mistake of running past Dean on the left, the hand in which he tightly held Bobby's prize machete. One swing of the long blade later and the ghoul's head neatly fell to the ground and rolled under the foliage.

The ghoul on Dean's right made it all the way to him, knocking him back into the door. The wood creaked and before Dean could fully recover, it was back for a second strike. Claws grazed his shoulder pulling loose some of Bobby's hard work and opening the wound anew. The third knock into the door caused the door to splinter and Dean's ribs to burn.

Dean squared his shoulders and prepared for another assault. The ghoul rushed him again, but despite its greater speed, it was outmatched and it too fell in a headless heap on the ground. Dean stood there with eyes scanning the yard for any traces of activity and his chest heaving. The smell of death permeated the air and the wind tinkled the chimes in the doorway, but there were no signs of any more ghouls.

Once Dean was sure it was safe, he went inside and rejoined Sam. He wiped the blood that was trickling down his arm and off his fingers onto his jeans. "Told you, you wouldn't need the knife," Dean quipped, tossing Sam a smile.

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, when his eyes opened wide and he stared at something in the doorway. "Dean," he whispered. Dean whirled around to face six hooded figures in black cloaks.

"There's only supposed to be one Sith Lord and one apprentice," Dean remarked, gesturing to the lot of them with a sweeping arm movement. He moved closer to Sam. "This is awkward," he muttered.

Sam rolled his eyes. _Why was Dean's first line of defense always to poke the bear?_ "Dean," Sam whispered again.

Dean took two more steps towards his brother and raised the machete. "Stay back," Dean ordered in a clipped, military style reminiscent of the eldest Winchester.

Sam saw the arm of the man closest to Dean raise his arm and the springs from the taser gun hit Dean in the chest. Dean fell to the ground, unconscious, his arms and legs still involuntarily twitching in small shivering bursts. _Oh God, Dean! _

Sam lifted his eyes when one of the hooded men stood in between Sam and Dean. "I've been waiting for you," the pale-faced man stated. He reached out and ruffled Sam's hair. "You've been chosen."

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The caretaker crouched in the bushes, his arm wrapped around his lab, watching as the men carried the Winchester brothers out of the house and deeper into the cemetery. "Follow them," he whispered in the dog's ear. The black dog ran after the men and disappeared into the night.

The lights from the Impala shone on the house and Bobby could plainly see the door was ajar. Dean would not leave the door wide open, inviting danger into the house. Bobby killed the lights and turned off the engine. He sat in the car for several moments debating his next move. The best reaction was action he decided and slipped from the car and headed for the house.

"They're gone," a quiet moan came from inside the house.

Bobby stepped over the threshold and found the caretaker sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. "Where's Dean?" Bobby asked harshly. "Where's Sam?"

"They're gone," the caretaker moaned again, looking up at Bobby. "He took them."

TBC

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AN: This was one of those rest, recover and regroup chapters…don't worry - the action and conclusion are on the way soon.

As always – feedback welcome!

ANx2: I will be flying back to MN this week to visit my sick grandmother (hoo boy, I didn't realize how much that was going to sound like an excuse for not doing my homework). Anyway…I will be taking my computer with me, but I don't know what kind of access I will have to Internet. I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can. As always, thanks so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I like the toilet paper roll to unroll from the topside, I prefer a manual transmission car and I don't like tapioca pudding, the consistency creeps me out. Oh, and I have nothing to do with Supernatural.

**Thank You: **To Wysawyg who takes time out from writing some really great stories and lets her plot bunnies dine on sawdust to be a tremendously helpful and supportive beta. I made some changes and additions after she beta'd, so as always, any mistakes are mine.

**Thank youx2: **To the anonymous reviewers I cannot thank personally. Thanks!

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"_They're gone," a quiet moan came from inside the house. _

_Bobby stepped over the threshold and found the caretaker sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. "Where's Dean?" Bobby asked harshly. "Where's Sam?"_

"_They're gone," the caretaker moaned again, looking up at Bobby. "He took them."_

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_Flatt Plains Community Cemetery – Caretaker Residence_

"He? You mean the Necromancer, this Ezra Umholtz guy?" Bobby asked, from where he stood in the doorway, glancing down at the caretaker still sitting on the bed.

"Yes," the old man nodded his frizzy hair bobbing in time to the motion. "But I sent Bojangles after them and when he returns he can lead us to them."

"No offense to you, but I'm not waiting around for a dog to show me where Timmy fell in the well," Bobby snapped. "Your dog can find us out there just as easily as in here. We're going after the boys. Did you happen to see which way they went?"

The caretaker pointed in the direction the necromancers had gone. "They headed deeper into the cemetery," he said.

"Then that's the direction we head," Bobby replied. He grabbed the caretaker by the scruff of his neck and propelled him towards the open door. "We only have an hour to go before midnight, so let's get a move on."

_Monroe Family Mausoleum_

The ground beneath him was cold and hard causing his joints to ache. His insides still quivered and he felt older than his twenty-eight years would suggest. He lay there as still as possible, hoping to gain a few minutes to collect himself before anyone noticed he was no longer incapacitated. He listened to the sounds around him, collecting as much information as he could and hoping it would be enough.

Sounds echoed in the room, indicating its size and depth. Liquid pouring, candles sizzling and the scratching, pulling sound of rope reached his ears. A low moan reverberated in the stillness and he moved from caution to roaring anger in between heartbeats. He knew that voice.

Dean sprang to his feet and rushed towards Sam before common sense engaged and he realized how outnumbered he was, not that it mattered. Sam's lanky form lay stretched across the altar at the back of the marble tiled room. He couldn't be certain in the dim light, but it looked as if Sam was tied to the altar and his hospital gown had been replaced by a black robe similar to the others. Black cloths adorned the room and red candles surrounded the altar flickering in the dark expanse.

The Necromancer looked up from Sam and pointed the dagger in his hand at Dean. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Uh, uh, uh," he tsked. "I wouldn't." He moved the dagger point directly to Sam's throat and pressed the tip into his flesh. Sam's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively and Dean fisted his hands at his sides. "I'll get to you soon enough."

"You'll get to me now," Dean insisted, shrugging off the hands that sought to restrain him. "Leave Sam out of this."

"Sam _is_ this," the Necromancer declared pressing the dagger point tighter against Sam's skin. Dean stopped his approach and tried to make eye contact with Sam, to let him know it was okay, that somehow he'd get him out of this, but he couldn't from this angle.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, his apprehension growing. The hands were back again, holding him in place, but this time Dean didn't struggle, he bided his time.

"I'll bet Sam here has figured it out, haven't you Sam?" the Necromancer's oily voice taunted.

Sam did not reply and Dean was beginning to worry it was because he could not. "Why don't you enlighten me?" Dean sniped.

The Necromancer lifted the dagger and gestured to the carved tiles around the altar. Dean moved forward, but the hands on his shoulders and the knife back at Sam's throat changed his mind. "These tiles tell the story. It is a story of life and of death. My brother's death."

The pattern slid together and solidified in Dean's mind. "Your little brother," he stated. "Thomas."

The Necromancer's face spread in a slow smile. "You are smarter than I gave you credit for," he replied. "Yes, my little brother Thomas." He pointed to one of the pictographs. "He was like Sam."

"If he was like Sam, I can tell you this," Dean said. "He wouldn't want you hurting someone for him."

"Maybe not," the Necromancer agreed. "But, I want my brother back and I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen. He'd understand."

"Well, that's selfish," Dean remarked hotly.

"Selfish?" the Necromancer replied, amused. He chuckled lightly. "This isn't my first new body," he explained. "Ezra is my third host and you will be my fourth." He picked up the silver chalice. "But first, Sam will be the one for Thomas."

Sam's chest was heaving. Dean could tell he was afraid no matter what Sam may be willing to admit. "What happened?" Dean asked, trying to distract the Necromancer and buy precious time.

The Necromancer gave Dean the look of a parent humoring a curious child and his tone spoke volumes to the same. "Thomas had a gift. A gift like Sam's," he explained. "Once people found out, they were afraid of Thomas. One day, a group of men caught Thomas alone and beat him. He died two days later."

"Where were you?" Dean snapped moving slightly forward and to the right. "He was your little brother. Where were you?"

"You of all people should understand," the Necromancer snarled. "You understand the burden of watching out for someone special like Thomas, like Sam." He ran his fingers through Sam's hair affectionately, his eyes seeing someone else. Dean tensed and barely restrained himself from reacting. "The vigilance it requires," he continued. "The constant strain of watching out for him, how tired you feel under the weight of the burden you carry."

From his new position Dean could see Sam's face. Tears and emotions swam in the hazel depths of his brother's eyes. Dean knew that Sam was empathetic, but these tears weren't for Thomas, they were for Dean because a part of Sam believed the crap the Necromancer was shoveling. "Sam isn't a burden," Dean snarled angrily. "We take care of each other. It doesn't have to be the same to be equal and I don't believe Thomas was a burden either. It's a convenient lie you've told yourself to justify your actions."

The Necromancer gripped the dagger tighter reining in his emotions. "I've been dead," he announced. "You'd be surprised how clear things become once the veil of societal mores is lifted." He signaled one of the others with a finger sweep and knuckles found their way to Dean's abdomen. "I failed my baby brother and they killed him. If I can make that right, nothing is going to stop me, least of all you."

Dean bent over with a groan. "A lot of people are dead," he groaned again, standing up. "Get over it."

"That's easy for you to say, but what if it was Sam? What would you do?" The Necromancer asked, his dark eyes penetrating.

_Anything, _Dean thought as his eyes flicked to Sam's. They were begging him to say the right thing, to keep the promise he had made. "I'd do what you have to do," Dean replied, breaking eye contact with Sam. "I'd let him go."

"Then let him go," the Necromancer declared, lifting the blade high.

As the chanting began a wind blew through the chamber, causing the candles to dance in the breeze. The Necromancer picked up a silver chalice and held it next to the dagger. "Powers of the Kingdom, be ye under my left foot and in my right hand!" The Necromancer intoned. "Glory and eternity, take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory!"

Dean struggled against the men restraining him, trying to break free and get to Sam. The Necromancer stirred the contents of the chalice with the dagger before he set down the chalice and began to chant again. "Mercy and Justice, be ye the equilibrium and splendor of my life!"

The Necromancer pressed the blood-coated dagger to Sam's chest and made the first cut. "Intelligence and wisdom crown me!" he cried, continuing the ritual.

"Aagh!" Sam groaned, finding his voice for the first time since Dean had been in danger at the caretaker's house.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, once more pushing hard against the others holding him tightly in place.

The wind picked up again and the squeaking, rubbing sound of fingers on wet glass resounded throughout the chamber. As the Necromancer moved to make another cut the doors burst open and in a flurry of black the Necromancer was knocked backwards against the candles.

The church members holding Dean and surrounding the altar rushed to the aid of their fallen leader, while Dean seized the opportunity and ran towards Sam. He could hear the commotion and the shouting on the far side of the altar, but Dean's only concern was for his little brother.

Sam's head was spinning. He knew the blood on the dagger had been laced with something and he could feel it racing through his veins. When the Necromancer disappeared from view in a tangle of limbs and a black blur, Sam struggled against the ropes that pinned his arms and legs to the altar. Every movement and tug brought a fresh wave of pain rippling through his stomach, but he had to free himself.

Dean's face appeared above him and relief washed over him. He could scarcely hear what Dean was saying over the din, but the murmured litany of, 'okay, you're gonna be okay,' rang true. His hands were cut free first and when Dean dipped out of sight, Sam felt the rope around his ankles fall away. Dean's hands were on his shoulders, easing him to a sitting position and then pulling his legs off the altar where they dangled as useless wooden blocks.

Cool hands on his face caused Sam to look up from his feet and he found Dean merely inches from his face. "Are you going to be okay if I leave you here for a minute?" Dean asked, his green eyes searching Sam's face for the truth.

"I'm okay," Sam stated quietly, perpetuating the biggest lie the Winchesters told.

Dean's hands moved to the back of his neck and then his shoulders giving them a light squeeze. "I'll be right back," he said.

A loud, yipping yelp from behind Sam caused him to twist slightly and Dean to peer over Sam's shoulder to the floor behind the altar. The Necromancer was struggling to free himself from underneath the carcass of a large black dog. "Bojangles!" the shrill voice of the caretaker echoed off the walls.

The Necromancer stood with the bloody dagger in his hand. He began to chant in Hebrew and Sam could feel the weight of his words penetrating his mind and wrapping his head in a fog. He fought against the fog, pushing it away and back towards the Necromancer. "No!" the Necromancer shouted in frustration.

Sam's eyes darted around the room, searching for the answer to the remaining questions. If he could figure out the key to stopping the ceremony, they'd more than level the playing field. Bobby appeared at Sam's left and nodded to Dean giving him permission to go after the Necromancer. "Dean," Sam called. Dean stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sam. "Smash the tile that represents Thomas."

"Got it," Dean shouted over his shoulder, taking off full bore. He lifted the heavy tile from its place on the wall and held it over his head.

"Stop!" the Necromancer shouted. "I command you to stop!"

Dean grinned wide. "Yeah, well I command you to go to hell." He slammed the tile down on the hard marble floor and it shattered into a myriad of slivered pieces.

"You are going to pay for that," the Necromancer promulgated, motioning to someone behind Dean. "Hold him."

Dean caught sight of the man beside him. The man held tightly to Dean's right arm and bent it backwards, straining the injury to his shoulder. "You?" Dean asked, his eyes growing dark as his rage built. "Did you deliberately miss that bleeder?"

"I caused that bleeder," Dr. Monroe confessed. "It would have been slow enough to get Sam here for the ceremony before he died. I didn't count on Cheryl."

"Your son was one of the missing," Sam remarked quietly from his seat on the altar and Dean threw the good doctor a glare that could have melted steel.

"I did it for the power he represents," Dr. Monroe stated unashamedly. "The power over life and death has a strong allure."

"You sacrificed your family to this man for power?" Dean asked, fury etching every line in his body. "Family is the most important thing. You watch out for your family, you keep them safe, but you don't turn them over to power hungry death dealers."

"Spoken like a true protector," the Necromancer interjected. "What better way to command the ultimate loyalty than to demand the ultimate sacrifice?" He stepped closer to Dean and raised the dagger. "You know that to be true," he whispered.

Sam scanned the tiles frantically searching for the symbol representing the Necromancer. It had to be here for the ceremony. Sam just had to find it. As the Necromancer began to chant in Hebrew, Dean fell to his knees, shouting in agony. Sam spotted it and pointed to a far tile. "Bobby, smash that tile," he instructed softly yet insistently.

"Which one?" Bobby asked, looking around at the tiles unable to identify the one Sam was pointing to.

"The one with the fence followed by the ox head," Sam replied, gripping the edge of the altar in anticipation of supporting his own frame. When Bobby nodded and moved away from him, Sam struggled to remain upright on the altar. The pain in his stomach flared and he gasped for breath.

Bobby picked his way past the caretaker who was cradling the fallen canine. He reached the tile and pulled it from the wall. "Master!" one of the hooded members shouted, but his warning came too late. The tile landed at the Necromancer's feet and snapped neatly in three sections.

Dean was abruptly released by the men holding him and he slumped forward. He narrowly saved himself from unceremoniously landing face first on the marbled floor with flat hands. Dean sucked in a great lungful of air before hauling himself to his feet and back to Sam. "You okay?" he asked, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder to help support him.

Sam nodded. "You?"

"Yeah," Dean replied. A flash of metal caught his eyes and he narrowed them in angry suspicion. He gently pulled on the metal chain around Sam's neck and the amulet emerged from its hiding place in Sam's robes. Dean grabbed both sides of the chain and pulled outwards snapping the chain and pulling it from Sam's neck. Dean swung the chain, wrapping it around his hand and grasping the amulet in his fist.

The smell of burning hair reached Sam's nostrils and he grimaced. "Dean, look," he said, jutting his chin towards the smell. The six hooded figures stood in a circle around a heap of smoking robes. "I think the Necromancer's spirit was evicted from his host body when Bobby smashed the tile."

"He's just a nasty pile of putrefaction," Dean quipped. His hand did not leave Sam's shoulder, but the other gestured at the figures. "How does this fit in with your promise of power?"

The men glared at Dean before turning to walk away. "Hey, where do you think you are going?" Dean demanded loudly.

"Dean, we can't hurt them," Sam stated, grabbing Dean's arm lightly. "They're human."

"They're evil," Dean contradicted, angrily. "They're evil of the human variety, but still evil."

"Let them go," Sam insisted. His hazel eyes silently willing Dean to make the right choice.

"They tried to kill you," Dean argued with a snarl, his free hand fisting tighter around the amulet.

"And you stopped them," Sam said, wincing when he shifted. "You saved me. Let them live. Let them live knowing you did the right thing and they didn't. They offered up their family for a chance at immortality. That's the difference between us and them." When Dean did not immediately back down, Sam added. "Let them go."

Dean relaxed his posture and frowned. "I don't like it."

"You're not supposed to," Sam reassured him.

"Bobby, can you help Sam for a minute?" Dean asked, flicking his gaze to the older man for a moment.

"Sure thing," Bobby replied, placing his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Dean," Sam protested, reaching for Dean as he started to walk away.

Dean turned back around to face his brother. "I won't do anything stupid," he promised. Sam tilted his head to the side, furrowed his brow and shot Dean a look of sheer disbelief. "Okay, I won't do anything _incredibly_ stupid," he amended.

In seven long strides, Dean caught up to the hooded men. "Monroe!" Dean shouted.

Dr. Monroe reflexively turned to the sound of his name being called. "You can thank my brother for your life," Dean announced, pulling back his fist and hitting Monroe squarely in the face.

Dr. Monroe fell to the ground as blood spurted out his nose and ran down his face. "I dink you brode by node!" he growled, cupping his hand around his nose. One of the other men helped Monroe to his feet.

"You'll live," Dean replied simply. He turned his back on the black robed figures and marched back to the altar, resuming his place next to Sam.

"Was that really necessary?" Sam asked quietly, as Bobby stepped away and walked behind the altar.

"Yeah," Dean replied with a smirk. "It was."

Keening from the floor garnered the brothers' attention and they turned their heads to look at the old caretaker on the floor. Bobby was standing helplessly next to him, seemingly unsure of what to do. "I bound him to me," the caretaker lamented, fat tears rolling down his gnarled cheeks. "I bound him to me when he was a puppy and now he's gone."

"He died protecting others," Bobby said borrowing from the hunter's credo. "It's a good way to go."

The caretaker smiled dully through his tears. He pointed a finger at Dean and said accusatorily, "You didn't drink your tea, did you?"

"After what happened before, are you crazy?" Dean asked.

"Perhaps," the caretaker admitted. "But you still should have drunk the tea. It would have provided you a measure of protection." The caretaker pursed his lips and pouted. "I told you to trust me."

"Sh'yeah, that was gonna happen," Dean snarked.

"I hate to break this up," Bobby interjected. "But we need to do something with the remains and that amulet."

"I think we should salt and burn it, along with Thomas," Dean replied, looking at the remains which were now melting. "Anyone have a shop vac?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "The chalice and the tiles too, just to be safe," he cautioned.

"How am I going to haul your heavy butt while carrying tiles, a chalice, an amulet and a rotting pile of dead Emperor?" Dean asked with a lop-sided grin. "Cause I gotta tell you little brother, your butt is heavy."

"Whatever," Sam groused. "I can walk."

"Sure you can," Dean teased. "Can you even stand? How about sit without falling over?" Dean loosened his grip on Sam, but did not remove his hand. Sam reached out for Dean's arm to balance himself and glared at his older brother. Dean was right, but that did not mean Sam had to like it.

Silence lingered in the air for a moment until Bobby cleared his throat. "So uh, how did you know which symbol would help Dean?" Bobby asked, stepping closer to the brothers and changing the subject.

"Because it was the symbol for brother," Sam said, making eye contact with Dean. "Or…protector of the family."

Dean swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, but it was several beats later before he waved his hands in front of the tiles and tossed off, "So, where's the symbol for, 'pain in the ass geekboy?'"

Sam extended his middle figure and pointed towards the ceiling. "It's right here," he deadpanned, lifting his eyebrow.

Dean laughed and ruffled Sam's hair, the touch restoring the good feelings Sam normally had at the gesture. "Let's get you out of here, Sam."

In the end, it proved easier said than done. Dean refused to leave Sam at the mausoleum or in the Impala by himself, so Bobby and he alternated between carrying a load to Thomas' grave and staying with Sam. By the last trip, it was obvious the tea Sam drank at the caretaker's was wearing off. His face was pale and Dean could see the pain Sam was trying to hide.

"We're almost done," Dean stated. "Bobby's taking the last turn at digging and he'll finish the burn."

"You should be out there with him," Sam forced out, trying to sound natural. He did not succeed.

"Bobby will be fine," Dean reassured him. "When he gets back, I'm going to go and get the Impala. I should be able to drive it most of the way here. Bobby picked up some killer pharmaceuticals, I'm told. Should have you singing show tunes before we get back to the highway."

"Funny," Sam huffed. He was lying down on the floor because Dean had insisted he could not lie on the altar. Sam shivered and the movement pulled on his wounds. The recent cut on his chest had stopped bleeding, but it was still red and oozing.

The door opened and Bobby entered the mausoleum. His clothes were caked with dirt and he was sweaty. "All done," he announced, pulling off his cap and rubbing his head. "Where'd Jasper go?"

"Who?" Sam and Dean asked in unison.

"Jasper?" Bobby asked. "The caretaker? Little guy, white hair, talks, well talked to his dog?"

"Dean helped him load Bojangles in a wheelbarrow," Sam replied. "I think he was taking him home."

"Seemed like a good dog," Bobby commented. He did have a soft spot for dogs and he felt for the little guy. "You boys ready?"

"Yeah, I should be back in twenty minutes," Dean replied standing up.

"Won't be necessary," Bobby said. "I went back for the car seeing as I was halfway there anyway. I thought Sam might need some pain killers by now."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean replied, his green eyes reflecting gratitude. He was not used to help and it always surprised him when it came his direction.

"Nothing to it," Bobby replied. He pulled a syringe out of his back pocket. "It's pretty strong stuff, Sam, but I think you need it." He waited until he received a go ahead signal from both brothers, before he uncapped the syringe and plunged it into Sam's arm.

The cold liquid burned as it entered his arm, but moments later Sam felt as if he was floating detached from his body. "Wow," he slurred. He heard Dean's tinkling laugh and his eyes drooped closed before he snapped them back open. "I can walk."

"Sam, you're already in the car," Dean's disembodied voice replied from the darkness. "And we're driving, so don't try to get out either."

"Okay, I didn't want pie anyway," Sam replied, drifting on the edge of awareness.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean said in a commanding tone.

"Kay," Sam murmured, drifting off.

Dean shook his head and turned to Bobby in the passenger seat. "Are you headed home after you pick up your truck?" he asked.

"Yep, I think you boys have it covered from here," Bobby replied. "You'll call me though, if you need something?" It was phrased as a question, but it was statement.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "I will. I'm going to get some miles between us and this damn town before I find a motel though."

"You're welcome to stay with me for a few days," Bobby offered.

Dean snuck a look at his sleeping brother in the back seat. "Thanks for the offer, Bobby, but we're good." He wanted, no needed some time with Sam before things turned to hell again and things always seemed to turn to hell before they were ready. Dean pulled into the parking garage next to Bobby's truck.

"Take care," Bobby said, exiting the Impala. "I'll expect to hear from you when you stop tonight and then, well that's it unless you need me."

"Right," Dean replied. "Thanks."

"Sure thing," Bobby replied, shutting the door.

Dean waited until Bobby got in his truck and started the engine before pulling away. He wanted at least an hour between them and Flatt Plains. When he reached the highway, Dean made a decision and turned his car east. Sam moved restlessly in the back seat and mumbled something about his gummy worms. Dean chuckled softly at his stoned brother and pressed down on the accelerator, allowing the open road to grant him some peace of mind.

TBC

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AN: Well, I didn't leave ya'all hanging after all! Thanks to Wysawyg and her rush beta job! I am thinking about a recovery/epilogue chapter, so I may work on that while I'm gone.

Thanks to everyone who has been reading.

As always – Feedback Welcome!


	11. Epilogue

**What's Dead Should Stay Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I've converted three new people to Supernatural fandom, but since they aren't selling stock based on recruits, I still don't own a piece of the action.

**Thank You: **To Wysawyg for being such a great beta. I really put her through her paces with this one!

And Jen for the insta-feedback…it made a difference.

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Sam sat on the bed with his long legs stretched out in front of him and sighed. The flat, boring wood paneling and red velvet trim had long since ceased to hold any fascination for him other than possibly tracking down whoever thought it was a good look in the first place and slapping some sense into them. He had only been here for three days and it was two and a half days too many.

Sam cracked his neck and pushed himself higher in the bed. Dull pains throbbed through his stomach at the motion, but he pushed them away with practiced effort. Dean would be back soon with dinner, promises of more punishment disguised as physical therapy and excuses for moving on within the next day or so.

Sam thought back over the course of the last nine days. They had switched motel rooms frequently during that time. Dean had kept them moving in an erratic pattern, keeping in contact with Bobby and making sure the necromancy group had really given up on using Sam in their quest to bring back either Thomas or his older brother: the Necromancer himself.

Of course, nine days ago Sam had been pretty out of it. He had vague recollections of Dean wrapping him in blankets then slowly and carefully helping him out to the car. He remembered, or at least thought he remembered, Dean orbiting nearby whenever he awoke: helping him sit up in bed to sip tea or soup, the trips to the bathroom that while only ten feet away were an insurmountable distance without Dean's strong arm to keep him upright and the comforting presence of his big brother when he woke up shaking from a new round of nightmares of flickering candles and voices in the dark. On one such night, Sam had bolted awake and lain there shivering and trying not to wake his brother until his mind caught up with his body and he heard fragments of a conversation.

"_I don't care what it takes. Find some way to cast a very long shadow of doubt on Monroe's capabilities as a doctor." _

"_No, I'm not suggesting that…yet." _

"_Thanks, Bobby."_

By the time Dean had sat down next to him, checking on him for the umpteenth time that evening, Sam had been drifting on the edges of sleep. He had forgotten to ask Dean about it the next morning and after that, it seemed a moot point.

Six days ago, Sam had insisted the strong painkillers Bobby had procured from dubious sources be discontinued. He did not want the drugs sapping his resolve or enveloping his brain in a white haze any longer. The pain would be preferable to his continued dependence on Dean. He appreciated his brother's attentiveness and, while a part of him reveled in the feeling of being cared for that the attention engendered, it would not do for the long haul. He needed to regain some independence for himself, to quell the lingering feelings of doubt that he was, despite Dean's protestations to the Necromancer, a burden to his brother. Dean had listened to his request for the most part anyway. He gave Sam the remaining Tylenol 3 they still had on hand from several months ago during the day, but Sam suspected in the evening the stronger medicine had found its way into Sam's bloodstream for at least two more nights.

Five days ago, Dean had begun torturing him. It started small with miniature circuits around the motel room and progressed to trips to the Impala culminating in voyages down the street and back. Dean had hovered ever present close to his elbow and Sam knew Dean had been worried he was not strong enough for the longer trips. True to his nature, Dean had allowed Sam the freedom to push himself past Dean's level of comfort, but only as long as he was there to monitor Sam's endurance level. The one time Sam had left the room to walk on his own to the motel office for a can of soda while Dean was out getting lunch had ended in an argument. An argument Sam had decidedly lost.

"_Sam, promise me you won't leave the room, unless I'm with you." _

"_Dean, I don't understand what the big deal is, I wasn't gone for more than two minutes."_

"_And what if you'd fallen down or someone had tried to mug you, what would you have done?"_

"_On the way to the motel office?"_

"_Sam, just promise, at least until the staples come out."_

"_Okay, fine, but only until the staples come out."_

"_All of them."_

"_Fine!"_

The look of relief that had flashed briefly across Dean's face had Sam feeling so guilty he had not pushed the issue or the reasons behind Dean's over-reaction to it.

Two days ago, Sam had finished taking the antibiotics, the dry mouth feeling had gone away and his appetite had returned. Dean had tried to get him to walk an extra two blocks that evening with the strange promise of gummy worms. He had given Dean a quizzical look, obviously confused by the odd offer.

"_What's with the gummy worms?"_

"_I figured you could have some, if you earned them first."_

"_Yeah, but gummy worms?"_

Dean's only response had been to chuckle in amusement at his own joke. Sam still hadn't figured that one out.

Yesterday, Dean had found a small clinic and had taken Sam in to get the staples checked. Dean had been checking them daily for signs of infection, any redness and tenderness, but had decided today was the day they should be checked by a professional. The doctor on duty had agreed with Dean's assessment and had removed nearly all the staples in his chest and legs. The doctor had checked the staples in his stomach from the surgery and tested his stomach for soreness. Sam had noticed Dean clenching his fists when the doctor probed a tender spot, but to his credit had said nothing. If the doctor thought anything of the twenty-three year old having his brother in the exam room, he had not mentioned it. Sam had been grateful on both counts.

Sam stretched again and shifted restlessly on the bed. The idea of an actual shower, instead of just a pit bath and hair wash, for the first time in nearly two weeks appealed to Sam and he slowly plied himself off the bed. Carefully reaching down for his duffel bag, he eased it onto the bed with one arm, holding his other arm protectively across his belly. He searched through the bag and finally came away with a clean pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt. He was still zipping up the bag when Dean walked through the door with to go boxes in his hands.

A quiet look of disapproval fluttered through Dean's eyes, but disappeared as quickly as it came. Dean set the boxes down on the table and without turning to face Sam asked, "Taking a shower?"

"Yeah," Sam replied with a voice scratchy from sleep. "I can't wait for a real shower."

"I didn't want to say anything," Dean replied, turning around with a smirk on his face. "But you smell pretty ripe."

"Nice," Sam shot back. "Thanks."

Dean awarded him a lop-sided grin and added, "Any time. I brought back some food. Hamburgers, fries, even salad," the last said with a small laugh.

"Wow, I'm impressed," Sam sniped on his way past Dean. "You're diversifying."

"It's not for me," Dean protested with a look of horror on his face. "I'm not the one that needs to eat his vegetables."

"Your body probably wouldn't know what to do with vegetables," Sam muttered entering the bathroom and closing the door.

"What's that, Sam?" Dean's muffled voice asked through the door.

"Nothing," Sam replied, sitting on the toilet to peel his socks from his feet. The pulling on his stomach caused a twinge of pain, but Sam had stopped letting Dean help him with socks or shoes several days ago. He had to maintain a sliver of pride somehow.

"'Cause it sounded like you said you were up for some extra walking after lunch today," Dean remarked.

"Sure," Sam replied, refusing to take the bait. _Save me from my big mouth, _Sam thought. He turned on the shower and let it steam up before climbing in. There would be time to work the kinks out of his back before he went walking with Dean this afternoon.

When Sam emerged from the bathroom, Dean was sitting on his bed with a dissembled rifle, cleaning it. Sam walked back to his own bed and sat gingerly on the edge. "Are you ready to go?" Sam asked.

"Not until you've had lunch," Dean said pointing towards the food on the table with the cleaning brush.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes or to admit he was not hungry. Lately, Dean had taken any indication that Sam was not up to snuff as his cue to start flapping about like a mother hen. Sam knew the incident with the Necromancer had raised Dean's hackles, but it did not fully explain the absolute hovering act Dean had been performing. He suspected it was whatever had happened after they had left the hospital, but before he had awoken at the caretaker's house on the kitchen table.

Walking over to the table he rummaged through the paper sack and pulled out the salad. It was a fast food salad, but it actually looked pretty good. He popped off the plastic lid, drizzled on the dressing and started to eat. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean responded without looking up from his task.

"Maybe we should start looking for our next hunt?" Sam suggested. A change of scenery and something new to focus on would do them both a world of good.

"You're not ready," Dean replied succinctly.

"I'd just be looking for a hunt and doing the research," Sam protested. "It's not like we'd take off right away or anything."

"No," Dean stated his tone leaving no room for argument. Not that that would stop Sam.

"Dean…"

"I said no," Dean barked, this time lifting his gaze to look at Sam.

Frustration flared and Sam paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. "Dean, what happened?" Sam asked quietly.

"Don't know what you mean," Dean replied, switching his gaze from Sam back to cleaning his rifle.

Sam sighed lightly and walked over to Dean, sitting down next to him, their shoulders almost touching. "You know it goes both ways," Sam said simply.

"Oh God, what?" Dean asked, tossing the barrel down on the bed in frustration. He did not want to have this conversation.

"I know when you're not telling me everything too," Sam answered.

Dean turned his head towards Sam and made brief eye contact before looking away again. The look of quiet understanding in Sam's eyes was almost enough to make him crack. Almost. "Sam, I'm not holding anything back. I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam did not respond, but sat next to Dean without saying a word. Words would frustrate Dean to the point of shutting down entirely. Silence offered him the time and freedom to muster up the courage to talk, if he was going to talk. Dean chanced another glance at Sam and found him waiting patiently. There was no look of expectation or annoyance on his brother's face, just a quiet offer of a listening ear.

Dean sighed. "You stopped breathing." It was said so low Sam barely caught the mumbled words.

"At the caretaker's house?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded his head, but did not continue right away. His eyes were staring at an obscure spot on the floor, but his vision was turned inwards. "The doctors at the hospital didn't know what was wrong and the caretaker kept telling me he could help you, so…so, I took you to him," Dean said.

When Dean did not continue Sam softly urged him on. "I remember," he prompted. "We were in the car."

"You were so sick, Sammy," Dean continued. "When you passed out in the car I thought I might have been too slow, too late."

Sam heard the emotion in Dean's voice even if there wasn't any visible in his eyes. "But you weren't and you did. And even if something had happened, it wouldn't have been your responsibility. Dean, you can't protect me from everything."

Sam realized too late how wrong those words were as every muscle in Dean's shoulders and neck bunched before the impending explosion from Mt. Winchester. Dean abruptly stood up and walked three paces away from the bed before turning back around. "It is my responsibility, Sam," he spouted. "You're my little brother," he continued, his voice softening even though his posture did not. "That makes you my responsibility."

Sam's shoulders slumped slightly and he tried not to show Dean how much those words scared him. Not because he did not appreciate the sentiment, because he did. He did, but he knew just how much Dean meant what he said and Sam was afraid of what it might cost one day.

"Sam, responsibility is not the same as burden," Dean replied closing the distance between them and resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Don't let that guy throw his issues with his brother on you."

"I'm not," Sam countered.

"Now, who's holding something back?" Dean chided. He sat down on Sam's bed so he could look his suddenly reticent brother in the face.

Sam met Dean's gaze and replied, "I'm not letting his issues get to me." At Dean's disbelieving stare Sam added, "Exactly."

"So what _exactly _is it?" Dean asked. He leaned forward resting his forearms on his legs, leaving only inches separating them.

"Dean I know you think you can save me from whatever the demon's plans are for me," Sam began.

"I will," Dean replied, without hesitation or doubt in his voice.

"The thing is, well, you know the reason I asked you to…" Sam's voice trailed off again before he found his voice again and continued. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"I know that," Dean replied, although in his heart he knew he could not kill Sam. He would save him. It was the only option Dean would allow himself to acknowledge.

"That especially means you," Sam finished quietly, breaking eye contact with Dean and staring at a stain of unknown origin on the lime green carpet.

"You won't," Dean reassured him, tapping Sam's knees with his knuckles.

"What about you?" Sam asked, re-establishing eye contact with Dean.

"I promise I won't hurt me either," Dean quipped with a smirk.

"Promise?" Sam asked, his sincerity evident in his expression.

Well crap, he had not even seen that Sam-mine until he stepped on it. Dean sat there in silence for a minute before standing up and walking to the table. He could not bring himself to lie to Sam about it. He would do what he needed to do when the time came. "We should probably head out for that walk," Dean stated. "We need to be back in time to pack up before it gets too late. We're moving out tonight."

Sam noticed the walls slam down tight on Dean's face. The conversation was over and nothing Sam could say would jumpstart it again. "Yeah, okay," Sam replied, catching his coat when it was tossed to him. He knew the frustration and fear he felt was visible in his eyes, because Dean was studiously avoiding looking at him.

Dean held the door open and fell into place beside him as they headed out. As Sam walked past the Impala he noticed the passenger side window was no longer cracked. "You fixed it," Sam said nodding his head at the window.

"Of course I fixed her," Dean replied. "She's my baby."

Sam glanced over at Dean and read on his face the double meaning behind the words. It may not have been the words he wanted to hear, but if the situation was reversed he knew he could offer Dean no more false assurances than Dean was offering him. If he was faced with the same scenario he would do what he had to do to save his brother too. He smiled at Dean and offered him the only olive branch he could – understanding.

Fin.

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AN: Thanks to everyone who has been reading. It's been a fun ride!


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